where there is light
by callitwhatyouwill77
Summary: In the early hours of a spring morning in 1898, Mary Josephine Crawley is born- only she believes she should have been born a boy. When Matthew Crawley proves to be the son her Father never had and always wished for, she makes up her mind to resent him for all eternity. But hating to be predictable means even she cannot foresee unbidden feelings that exist beyond her control.
1. Chapter 1

**April 1898**

Mary Josephine Crawley was born in the small hours of a bitterly cold spring night. She was early, not so early that it should be a worry, but early enough to inconvenience and panic everyone from her grandparents who awaited for news on the child from the comfort of the small library to the young doctor who had rushed over from his comparably modest home in the village to the large manor that stood as the crown of the Grantham estate. The staff waited anxiously below stairs for the news, shivering in the callous night air, mostly giddy with anticipation of what a child would mean in their day to day lives. They would grumble about the noise and the extra staff and food later, of course, but in those moments their emotions were mostly a complicated mix of unease and excitement. Robert Crawley was at his wits end. Oblivious to the time or the frigidity of the night, he religiously gulped his whiskey, practically pacing holes in the floor. He was too consumed by the itching concerns of every man who endured those nerve-wracking hours of unanimous helplessness to pay mind to such extraneous details as the weather.

The young viscount had every faith in the doctor they had employed to bring their first child into the world, not least because he had made monumental moves in children's medical practice over the course of a mere few years, but the man had been his friend since his school days – not to mention he also happened to be a cousin. Albeit, an extremely distant cousin. Robert could comfortably put his child's life in the man's hands and, even after a few hours when Reggie had told him on no uncertain terms that the difficult circumstances of the birth might mean the child's health, or indeed life, was in danger, the viscount, though now incredibly distressed and terrified, was still set somewhat more at ease in knowing that they were in the best possible hands.

Cora was safe - he had been assured that much, but when the dead of night shifted to dawn and then the break of day, Robert was almost at melting point. His father's presence had been less than helpful, due to his preference for unearthly silence, and his nerves certainly hadn't been helped by his mother's sharp tongue, but it was only when Reggie appeared in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows, sweat pouring from his forehead, that he was allowed to abandon his drink and rush upstairs to see his wife again and meet his first child for the first time.

The two men clapped each other on the back as they crossed paths, a mutual pass of goodwill between them. Robert's one of unbelievable gratitude and Reggie's one of congratulation. The doctor made his way into the library, polishing off his friend's whiskey before grasping his work bag from the hall and slipping away into the early morning dew.

He whistled joyfully, following the winding path through the woods with a spring in his step after the peaceful satisfaction of a job well done. The baby had survived, health impeccable beyond his wildest hopes given how morbid and frantic the night had begun. He'd have to monitor the child- through infancy and early childhood to ease his beliefs to a certainty, but, for now, his oldest friend and his wife were the proud parents of the most beautiful baby girl he'd ever seen. All of which, made Reggie long to get back to his home and his own wife and young son as soon as he could.

* * *

Robert's glossy eyes met those of his wife the second he stepped foot into the tranquil quiet of her bedroom. Cora sat, long hair loose against the headboard with a bundle held under her adoring gaze. She smiled at him, lifting her eyes from the child for long enough to tell him that they had a daughter. When the young viscount took the baby, he cradled her against the cotton of his nightshirt as though she were the most fragile thing he'd ever seen.

"She's perfect," came the new father's enraptured whisper. The pad of a gentle thumb stroked over the smooth skin of his daughter's delicate cheek. Her small eyes were still shut, the serenity of her sleep being the loveliest thing he'd ever have the fortune to witness, but her tiny mouth opened in a soft yawn and she smacked her lips slowly. "She's so beautiful," he murmured to his wife, "oh my darling, she's absolutely perfect."

* * *

Reginald Crawley arrived home just in time to hear the silence in his home broken when his son began to howl. He sighed, but contentedly, knowing his wife was a heavy enough sleeper to not be woken, it allowed him time enough to settle Matthew before sneaking back to bed to allow his weary limbs to catch maybe an hour or two of sleep before duty called to rouse him for the duration of the day. He lay his medical bag down on the hall table and took the flights of stairs two at a time before reaching the nursery. He'd discreetly given the nanny, a sweet local girl who aspired to become a nurse, a few days off to allow her time to journey to London for an interview, so he opened the heavy wooden door to find his three-month-old son, yowling and crying in his crib.

"There's my beautiful boy!" Reggie, ever the optimist, smiled through his sympathetic pout as he bent to pick up his red-faced child and held him to his shoulder, bouncing slightly as he walked around the nursery to calm his son's tears. Matthew was never usually so distressed, and the source of his disapproval was most likely the absence of his father throughout the night, but, in fact, he was what made Isobel and Reggie the envy of everyone in the village; for Matthew had big blue eyes and steadily thickening tufts of soft blonde hair that endeared him to all adults- especially when coupled with the simple fact that he was always willing to smile at any adult that did so first. He liked to giggle and smack his pudgy hands together- although he did frequently miss- and he had even managed to coax a smile out of Lady Grantham on one occasion. Robert and Cora had been besotted by him on their first meeting when he'd peskily managed to grasp a couple of Robert's fingers in a tiny fist.

He was easy to calm, sinking happily into his father's skin while Reggie rubbed his little back and told him, in a hushed tone, as his eyes drooped, that the Viscount Crawley the Viscountess had a new baby daughter.

* * *

Charles could hear the baby bawling long before he opening the double doors adjoining to enclose the big library. For all the worries and concerns about her health during the birth, she had a strong pair of lungs on her and could almost certainly bring great houses to their knees. She was an anxious baby, which was the reason for her screaming as much as it was natural for infants to cry to suit their needs and purposes. Doctor Crawley had diagnosed her with anxiety after a month and, while His Lordship and Her Ladyship ensconced themselves behind the newspaper or before embroidery during the hour of every evening when the child was brought in, pressed and polished, to spend time with her parents, Cora and Robert seemed overly more concerned over the girl's welfare when she cried.

The butler had been taken ill, so Charles Carson- the vaguely recently appointed first footman- supervised tea in the library that evening. He observed the viscount trying, in vain, to calm his daughter, who sounded wretchedly unhappy as well as being wholeheartedly determined to make certain the world was informed of her discomfort. She squirmed in the arms of her father and his awkward grip faltered for a second, showing how little experience he had in this particular genre of task and before Charles really knew what he was doing, he had lurched forward to catch the girl when she looked for a horrible moment like she would drop to the ground.

Thankfully, he managed to successfully get a grip on her just in time, raising her into his arms without a word of protest from the exhausted father and rocking her gently. The tiny bundled girl, roared her fury, possibly at the close call of being dropped or possibly out of indignation of her Papa allowing her to be handed away so freely.

Charles walked with her, her tiny balled fists smaller than a single one of his thumbs as she waved them furiously in the air. His instincts drew her close to him and after a short while of his unconceded efforts, her small mouth closed and the large eyes that had been screwed up with aggrieved wrath opened unexpectedly and fixed a big brown doe eyed gaze upon him. Enraptured, the beauty of this little girl stole the breath from his lungs. She smacked her lips slightly, and Charles was sure he saw a slight smile grace her delicate countenance.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" Robert said, awed just as much as the footman in the simple enchanting rapture of his young daughter. Transfixed with love for this tiny little human, the two men stood together while the baby shifted, finally content, and batted her heavy eyelids until they closed in sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**1904**

In a fit of rage at her sister, Mary had made the error of braking Edith's doll- much to the younger girl's anguish, and this was supposed to be Edith's thought through revenge. Only it had unfortunately gone mistakenly awry. What had, at first, been an immaculate plan devised by herself and Patrick to give her the deserved comeuppance by trapping her in the stable stall for a few minutes, had turned into anarchy when the bolt that Edith had slipped down over the door had got stuck and Mary had worked herself into a panicked frenzy. Clearly, she did not take to being locked in a dirty little stall with a horse more than twice her size.

To their credit, Patrick and Edith, upon realising their horrible mistake, made a great effort to undo the bolt- if anything just to try and avoid the inevitable trouble they had landed themselves in by accidently putting their respective younger cousin and older sister in a fair amount of danger and discomfort. But the bolt was effective, stiff and unyielding no matter how hard they tried to undo it to release their captive. When this didn't work, Patrick, being the eldest at seven, attempted to appeal to his cousin's better nature by calming her down- which only invoked Mary's anger all the more causing her to yell at him through her tears. Naturally, all the commotion became apparent to the horse, who reared up and frightened Mary even more making her cling to the door as she wailed. It had not meant to go this far.

Matthew had placed himself in the stable attic hours ago to sit in the hay and read in peace, a traditional afternoon for him due to his shy nature preventing him from really wanting to play with the others. Only he'd fallen asleep against the bales next to him, book slumped loosely in his lap, simply to be woken be the uproar of Edith and Patrick's cruel prank. He opened his eyes quite suddenly and blinked several times to rid his eyes of their slumber, screwing his fists to them to rouse himself fully. Strands of straw poked through his dishevelled golden hair and he clumsily brushed the excess off his little shorts and grey knitted jumper. He stumbled as he stood, leaving his precious book forgotten as he climbed precariously down into the main stable. He too heard Mary's distress and gave the bolt a try- throwing all his weight behind his efforts, which, considering that Patrick, who was a year older and that much bigger also, had failed, was rather gallant if misplaced.

He couldn't open it, so instead he moved a mounting stool and placed it next to the large door to the stall making a half-witted, but wholehearted attempt to climb over and grab her. When this elaborate plan also didn't work out, he moved the stool back and scrambled back to the door. "I'll go and fetch Mr Carson," he called, racing out of the stables at as fast a pace as his little legs would carry him in direction of the house.

Carson had grown accustomed to the Butler's office. Sitting in his subtly more grand chair, more grand than what he'd grown used to as a footman anyway, he had originally felt like an interloper, but over time he'd felt less so. He'd afforded the recognition in being addressed by his surname over the last months, since being elevated to acting Butler and eventually it would come that the children of the house would only ever know him as such.

Since the second child was born, another girl, Carson had become slightly wary over the worry that perhaps a Butler shouldn't have favourites. He believed that it was somewhat unprofessional in its proximity to the family to be so close in feeling to any of its members, but Miss Mary had stolen his heart from the second she laid her big brown upon him as an infant and since then would steal hours away from nanny by running away to sit in the Butler's pantry where he would allow her biscuits and teach her numbers and answer her inquisitive questions because the curious little girl was never appeased by nanny. She liked to clamber onto his lap and sit happily at his desk while he taught her about things as dry as the wine ledger- which she found fascinating- and more interesting skills like letter writing- which she enjoyed immensely. In fact, now and then, he would receive little notes with the date written at the top in clumsy writing followed by two or three sentences that swelled his heart a little bit more every time- no matter how mundane or poorly spelt they were.

He loved her like she was his own daughter, his own flesh and blood, yet he had no idea how she had managed to beguile him while still so young, weaselling her way into his heart and staying there.

That afternoon brought another of the wine orders to the servants' entrance door, meaning an evening ahead of him filling in the ledger before storing each bottle safely into the basement below the big house. He had sat down, resignedly, to get the job done when a disturbance on the staircase from the upstairs main hall demanded his immediate attention.

"Mr Carson! Mr Carson!" The calling of a faint, rather breathless, falsetto voice sent him wandering out of his office to find a small boy padding down the staircase, tired and bedraggled in appearance yet also endearing in his smartish-shabbiness. Matthew's small tie was still neatly in place around his white collar, tucked underneath his grey-knit jumper from which his shirt sleeves poked haphazardly out the end over his small hands. His little brown shorts were cut above his muddied and grazed knees and his grey socks- that were supposed to reach to just below the knee were only successful on one half, for the other sock had fallen around his ankle in his haste to reach the house. The small boy panted wildly, staring at the Butler with wide, piercing, blue eyes beneath his unruly and messy blonde hair.

"Master Matthew," Carson addressed, surprised at his presence but smiling at the sweet nature and loveable disposition of the boy.

"Mr Carson, we need your help," he announced, quite resolutely. "Mary has got stuck and we can't get her out."

He raised an eyebrow, suspecting an omission of some kind of foul-play between the children.

"May I ask where she is stuck and who you mean when you say 'we'?"

"Patrick, Edith and I," he answered innocently. His tone immediately alerted Carson to the fact that, should the manner in which she had got stuck prove to be suspicious, Master Matthew was entirely devoid of any fault or lapse of judgement. "She's stuck in the stables," he continued, "and I don't think she likes it."

 _No_ , Carson thought, _I don't suppose she does._ Realising, how young the little girl was, and also how small, he decided to act quickly judging by the fact that she was probably terrified out of her wits.

Matthew followed him back to the stables, his trepidation palpable by his anxious footsteps.

Mary was in tears by the time they arrived and Matthew stood meekly by Carson's side when he opened the stall door with relative ease and lifted the poor girl out as if she were as light as a feather pillow. Patrick and Edith, he noted, were nowhere to be seen. Mary clung to him tightly as though her life depended on it, squashing her newly erupting torrents of sobs into Carson's unsuspecting shoulder. He couldn't say he blamed her for her fright when he saw the rampaging horse she'd been locked in with; the animal had clearly been stressed by the panic and could have easily maimed the little girl, caused her serious injury or damn near killed her. He couldn't say be blamed Miss Edith or Master Patrick from fleeing either, as the partners in crime would certainly be in a whole load of trouble. Although, if Carson were honest, although he didn't know the younger sister well, only in passing really, he knew her character well enough to realize that she was more than likely provoked. He also knew Miss Mary well enough to know that she was not above provoking her sister, and suspected that this cruel and callous prank was meant as penance for some previous deed. Only this time, differing from the sibling's usual quarrels, it had gone a great step too far.

Once inside, Carson sat Miss Mary down on his desk so her legs dangled off the edge while her nerves died away. He removed his handkerchief from his breast pocket to dry her tears and sent the kitchen maid to fetch a her glass water. Matthew stood by, bashfully at the side, not saying a word, too shy to even make so much as eye contact with anyone. Mary's dress was torn and her ordinarily perfectly brushed and kept long locks of chestnut brown hair were now uncharacteristically mussed and unkempt. She sniffed, the blotches of red around her eyes receding as she calmed.

"Now," Carson started, his voice gentle and kindly, "Miss Mary and Master Matthew, one at a time, I would like to hear your account on what happened. I will share both accounts with The Viscount Crawley and allow him to pass judgement, once he's heard what Master Patrick and Miss Edith have to say as well." He had to suppress a fond smile and put on a more disapproving countenance when Miss Mary scoffed at the mention of her sister and cousin. "Does that sound agreeable?" He asked the two children. Matthew nodded hastily at once, but his shy behaviour was not shared, in the least, by Mary who scowled- an action her granny had always reprimanded her for due to its unladylike expression of feeling. Catching the eye of the Butler she so greatly loved, she softened, mumbling her ascent before sniffing again.

* * *

"Scotland is a beautiful place," Reggie reasoned, seeing Robert's face cloud over with a more dejected countenance. "We'll be nearer to Isobel's family and I believe the move will be good for us." He couldn't deny how long-winded and arduous the decision to leave Downton had become over the recent months but, the truth was, since their most recent miscarriage, times had constituted a change of scene and a fresh start for the family. They would be saddened to leave their friends as much as their home, but nevertheless, the conclusion they'd come to was that it was for the best.

"I agree," Cora said, keeping her more despondent feelings regarding the subject hung back, "Scotland is lovely, but what about Matthew? He's only just six years old, wouldn't this be upsetting for him?"

It had been a dilemma they had contented with, and one they'd thought through very seriously for the good of their dear son. Originally Isobel had sparred with the idea for fear of upsetting the child- he'd be torn from his home, his school, his friends and his way of life; Downton was all Matthew knew and he was content there- surely this was a fact to be reckoned with. Eventually, she came around to her husband's way of thinking, as although it might unsettle Matthew at first, the move would eventually be in his benefit.

"We realise it will take time," Isobel explained, "this is the only way of life he knows. But, like we all must, we believe he'll adjust over time."

What had previously been a joyous gathering of friends in the library, turned quite sullenly and suddenly into an unearthly and downcast silence. The news of his oldest and dearest friend's departure had hit Robert harshly square in the chest. He'd met Reggie at school and they'd grown close during their Eton days. Of course, Robert had returned to his ancestral home to learn the ins and outs of Earldom whereas Reggie had gone on to University to study medicine but, quite by accident, Reginald Crawley had been offered a job at the hospital in the village- where he had met Isobel during her training as a nurse. Since then, Robert had gotten used to having his closest friend nearby at a moment's notice. For a second, he thought an angry outburst would overcome his judgement, but he loved Reggie- and Isobel and Matthew- and was determined to be happy for them.

"Well, we should have a toast!" He announced, grinning.

When Carson came up, following the bell from the big library, he brought with him drinks to which the four adults toasted to half of their party's upcoming new life.

"I was wondering, sir," the Butler asked, "If I could have a word with you regarding the children."

"Yes of course, of course," Robert gushed, "if you would remind me before the dressing gone."

"Very good sir." Carson nodded stiffly.

"Oh, and let Mrs Patmore know that Doctor and Mrs Crawley will be staying for dinner."


	3. Chapter 3

**1904 (3 months later)**

"Mr Carson? Can I come in?"

Miss Mary stood, straight and proud in the doorway just as had become their little ritual in early afternoon. Carson took in her appearance, his greeting smile turning, furrowed, into a more curious expression at the sight of her wearing an elegant blue coloured coat and matching hat, holding a pillow case filled with oddly shaped objects in tow. She looked as though she were about to be brought out by nanny for a walk to the village or perhaps a drive into town with her parents, but if she were she should not have time to regulate her visits to his pantry. However, Carson had been informed at breakfast that the Viscount and his Lordship would be taking a trip round the farms on the estate round about this time and he was well aware that nanny would never take the children out into the village this side of luncheon.

"Of course, Miss Mary." He momentarily ignored his puzzlement to allow her in and the little girl walked in solemnly- quite the opposite to the customary way she gleefully skipped in- and stood resolutely before his desk, her usually sparkling and lively countenance fixed in a deliberately serious expression that amused him- he wondered, with affectionate interest, what mischievous plan she would have this time to brighten up his day. Except, today, she stood with a very dignified manner, hands clasping her pillow case in front of her while she waited for him to take his seat.

"I've come to you with a business proposal." She said eloquently.

He tried to keep his surprise to a minimum, only allowing one eyebrow to slowly creep up in intrigue.

"And what, prey, is this business proposal Miss Mary?" He said, trying to match her solemnity of tone to avoid causing her annoyance or aggrievance as, whatever it was, it clearly mattered very much to her. She may have been a child, but her thoughts and feelings were no less valid or poignant than those entertained by any adult.

"I've decided to run away, Mr Carson."

Carson nodded gravely and placed his pen gently down atop his desk.

"I see," he pressed, softly urging her to continue.

"And I wonder if I might take some of the silver to sell." She looked at him, the soft smile and gentle eyes she always saved for him gracing her youthful features.

"Well," he said, considering the matter, "that might be awkward for his Lordship."

Mary thought about this, wondering what her Grandpapa should have to say about the scenario. She stayed silent, shuffling her feet slightly in thought as she couldn't come up with an adequate response. She frowned.

"May I ask why you want to run away?" Carson asked, sensing her uncertainty.

Mary heaved a great sigh and dropped her pillow case, edging around the wide wooden desk and clambering up onto the Butler's lap and settling herself to be leant against him, side on, before conjuring a reply.

"I'm lonely." She murmured, breathing deeply before elaborating. "Mama and Papa have important things to do all the time and nanny says I need to leave you time to work. Patrick has left. Reggie used to show me the frogs in the river but he's gone now and so's Matthew and I have no one play with."

Carson was aware, following Doctor Crawley's departure, that Miss Mary had missed the daily visits of her godfather, but he hadn't known the girl to have ever really have had a strong bond of friendship with Master Matthew. As far as he knew, the boy was shy and often came too afraid to join in with the games of the others.

"You miss your friend." He concluded.

"We used to sometimes read together. He was kind to me when smelly old Edith locked me up." She explained, a pained expression lacing the words that caused him to supress an amused smile. He decided to allow the comment to go unreprimanded, just this once, due to the sad jut of her bottom lip that broke his heart.

"How about we write Master Matthew, Doctor Crawley and Mrs Crawley a letter to send to Scotland, like I showed you?" He proposed. "Then I give you sixpence to spend in the village instead of the silver." Carson wondered vaguely if this incentive constituted, however good intentioned, as bribery. She immediately excited at the prospect, lighting up but hiding her grin to maintain her earlier sense of calm meaningfulness and gravity.

"Very well," she said, "but you must be sure to charge me interest."

Charmed by her antics, Carson fished in his pocket for the right coin and eventually pulled one out and placed it gently in the palm of her small hand. He closed her delicate fingers over it and patted her hand, indicating for her to keep it safe. Mary's eyes lit up with the thoughts of the endless possibilities the village shops now held for her.

She grinned at him, braced a hand below his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you, Mr Carson," she whispered to her conspirator.

The butler's heart grew ten sizes, returning the girl's gesture with an enchanted smile.

He brought a fresh piece of paper before the both of them on the desk and placed the pen in her other hand, guiding her to the top right-hand corner to where she should write her name.

"So let's get started on this letter shall we?"

* * *

Sometime after Robert and his father returned from their tour of the estate farms, perhaps at two or three o'clock, the newly installed hall telephone rang, causing her Ladyship to very near jump out of her skin and send her reluctant son to answer it. Violet Crawley was much less of a supporter of the modern brainwaves in technology than the younger generation and did not take kindly to having her moment of serenity in the afternoon interrupted by the obnoxiously loud blaring of the telephone.

Robert picked up the receiver and held it to his ear, speaking to answer the caller into the mouthpiece at the same moment that Cora wandered out of the adjacent room in the hope of escaping the unamused complaints of her mother in law.

The one-sided conversation she overheard from her husband seemed to be cause for concern.

"Missing?! … Good lord… no, no I haven't… and you're certain?... he's not simply hiding somewhere?... good god… of course… of course… I'll see what I can do… I'm sure… how long?... oh dear… absolutely… of course… I'll do whatever it takes… please let me know… I'm sure he'll turn up… I'm sure he's alright… I'll make some calls… of course… goodbye Reggie."

Robert's face was pale and long when he placed the receiver to rest on its hook. He brought his hands up to cover his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, lost in deep thought as the stress began to set in.

"Darling," Cora inquired, "what was all that about?" Whatever it was it seemed rather serious, and must have been to perturb her husband in such a hasty manner.

Robert puffed out a deep breath. "Apparently, Matthew's gone missing," he said, wholly aggrieved and rightfully distressed over the news.

Cora gave a gasp, immediately hushed by the gloved hand that flew to cover her shocked lips. She pictured the innocent and timorous little boy with his unconfident exuberance and rather introverted disposition, and immediately became deeply fearful.

"They don't think he's been taken, do they?" She asked in horror, eyes wide with unrelenting trepidation.

"They don't know what to think." Robert answered solemnly. "They've informed the authorities where they are, but I'm going to put in a few calls- and ask Papa to as well- to see if there isn't any influence I can use to pull together all the proper awareness." Robert turned to pick up the receiver again.

"I do hope he's found soon. He'll be so scared once it gets dark," Cora voiced, praying for the little boy's safety.

* * *

Matthew sat pensively in the window seat of the only empty compartment he could find on board the train. With the little money he had managed to save over the years held in one of his little cotton socks, he had summoned all the courage he could muster to purchase a train ticket from the lady who manned the small station on the outskirts of Inverness. He had tried his best to prepare for the journey, donning a thick woollen hat that was hand knitted by his granny. He stared out at the frosty highlands as he sped past them, a white tinged green blur through the glass. After a while, he wiped the condensation from the window with a mittened hand and pressed his little nose to the cold glass. Within a few seconds a large conductor in a deep blue uniform and smart cap made to slide the compartment door open. The man eyed Matthew warily and said, very kindly in a deep Scottish accent, "have you got a ticket on you lad? Or should I ask your parents in the next compartment?"

Matthew pulled his face away from the window and tugged off his hat, grinning sheepishly at the man before reaching into his large duffle pocket and pulling out a crumpled piece of card. He handed it to the man with his outstretched mitten, looking a little bashful.

The man looked at it and frowned. "Sorry lad, I'm afraid this isn't the right ticket for this journey. It won't get you past the ticket master when you get off."

Matthew didn't really understand what he meant, but he had enough whereabout to fathom that the news wasn't good. His big blue eyes widened and he shifted in his seat uncomfortably, his small body filling with a nervous adrenaline.

"How about," the man said, "I get hold of another one for you and we'll say no more about it?"

Matthew smiled and nodded anxiously.

The man took a long moment to search in his wide uniform pockets for an appropriate ticket, finding one after a few minutes and stamping it before handing it to Matthew with a friendly nod.

"There you go, don't lose it."

"Thank you, mister." Matthew said, his falsetto voice endearing him further to the conductor who took a moment to ruffle his hair affectionately before sliding the compartment door shut behind him when he left, passing into the next one with the light-hearted call of 'tickets please'.

Matthew placed his hat on the stretch of seat next to him and leant back against the plush cushion, closing his tired little eyes when they became heavy and the countryside beyond the speeding train became steadily darker.

The next thing Matthew knew, was that the Scottish accent had returned.

"Wake up little lad, or you'll miss your stop."

Matthew roused slowly, his vision unblurring enough for him to see the darkened station beyond the window, and the dimly visible station sign grown in flowers on a grassy bank that read: Downton.

He rubbed his eyes with his tiny fists and thanked the man, before scrambling off the train and onto the platform.

The wind whipped him and he shivered violently, the strings of his mittens that were attached to his coat sleeves blew sideways and as the train left the station, he realised he'd left his hat on board.

Frightened, cold, tired and bedraggled, Matthew embarked bravely on the long walk through the expanse of the desolate village on path to the big house. The vulnerable feeling of deep set unease consumed him, even in a town where everyone knew him, and he used what little energy he could summon after his arduous day to race through the woods leading from the church to the Abbey due to an acute terror brought on by the moonlit darkness and hollow screeches of the nocturnal wildlife. It was almost pitch black in the trees, the light stemming from the crescent moon and littering of stars being the only thing guiding him, until the lights of the house came into sight.

By the time Matthew reached the doorstep, he was shivering and shaking, tears clinging to his cheeks as he panted. He barely possessed the strength for an audible knock, giving it his best effort by pounding his tiny fist against the thick wooden frame and then waiting; praying someone was awake and would hear him.

The household had retired to bed hours ago, but the lack of news on Matthew's discovery had cast a pall over the occupants, sending Robert and Cora to bed without any real hope of rest. The knock astounded them both, Cora thinking at first, that is was a figment of her imaginings- simply wishful thinking on her part that someone had come to tell them a report of Matthew's safe return to his parents. The startled countenance of her husband lying next to her, however, told her otherwise.

Robert clambered from the bed first, tying his robe securely about his waist before heading, hurried, down the grand staircase and through the main hall and entrance hall to the door. Normally, he wouldn't think of opening the door himself- that was the duty of the Butler or Footman- but he saw little point in awakening anyone at such a late hour and he was eager to discover what word the visitor brought.

Only when he brought the door ajar, he was, naturally, taken aback by the sight that beheld him. Stood on the doorstep, shivering and shaking so much it was a wonder he could stand, was the very little boy whose whereabouts had plagued them all with such deep-set dread and panic for the last hours. He had tears in the corners of his eyes, his blonde hair was sticking up messily at all angles, and he had nothing with him- nothing but a train ticket clutched in his little mitten-clad hand.

"I lost my hat," he sniffed, his lip quivering.

Robert stooped down at once and picked the little boy up and into his arms, closing the door and stroking Matthew's shuddering back with a fervent tenderness.

"My dear boy, it's alright," Robert soothed. He glanced through the door into the main hall to exchange a wide-eyed look with Cora, who moved over to them, carefully took Matthew from Robert's arms with the purpose of carrying him upstairs, allowing Robert to telephone Isobel and Reggie at once and notify them that their son was alright.

Cora brought Matthew into a spare room in the family wing on the second-floor gallery- a beautiful double room with light blue walls, blessing the atmosphere with a homely warmth that was comforting to the eye- and sat him in an arm chair, wrapping a blanket around him and leaning in lovingly to kiss his golden head. Matthew's chin trembled with sobs as Cora went about quickly making up the bed in order to settle the boy sooner. Robert came in a moment later, a pair of pinstriped pyjamas held in his grasp that must have dated back from when he, himself, was a boy. He helped Matthew to change slowly out of his frostbitten coat and cold clothes to replace them with the warm cotton shirt and trousers.

Cora sat on the edge of the large bed, much larger than a boy of his size would ever need, and brought Matthew gently to a position on her lap, rocking him while Robert stroked his hair until his tears dissipated and he lay back against her chest, heavy eyes drooping tiredly from the sheer exhaustion of the day. They tucked him softly under the warm covers and Cora smoothed a gentle hand over his forehead as his lidded eyes opened and closed repeatedly to look up at them.

"My dear, how on earth did you get here?" Cora asked him, her voice soft and quiet.

"I got the train." He mumbled drowsily.

"Why?" Robert asked tenderly, looking kindly at the tired little boy.

"It's always warm here. I was cold." He looked up at Robert and Cora, eyes drooping even further as he struggled to stay awake, "will you stay? Just for a bit?" He yawned.

Cora kissed his forehead and they both answered his sleep-induced question just as he drifted off into slumber. "Of course, dear."

They stayed with him for a short while, talking under hushed breath as they sat at the edge of his bed to watch over him.

"He came all the way here because he didn't like the cold." Robert said, mildly bemused. He pondered on the thought for a little while, before laughing slightly and adding, "he flew south for the winter, like a duck."

"Our little duck." Cora smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

**1904**

With the news of Isobel's pregnancy there arose the proposal that it might be best for all concerned for Matthew to stay at Downton until the baby was born. The truth was, both Isobel and Reggie were worried that should the pregnancy prove to fail, as they had been warned to be wary of by a specialist down in London, that the knowledge of this would be too heavy to burden to a six-year-old who most likely wouldn't understand it in its full capacity. They'd miss their son horribly, of course they would, but they both believed it would be in his better interest if he was spared of the ordeal that he might possibly be forced to undergo, should something go awry. Robert and Cora cherished the boy dearly, he'd proved to be too sweet and too altogether endearing to go unloved by either of them, and His Lordship welcomed him into his home, clearly gladdened to have a young boy he could teach to shoot and hunt and indulge in other practices he was prevented from educating his own granddaughters in by the restraints of the society they were bound to. He looked forward to the prospect of teaching Mary to ride but, as was tradition to keep these practices until she was seven years of age, he had a little while to go yet and was appeased by the presence of an elder boy to educate in the meantime. As it turned out, even he was not immune to Matthew's bashful charm, and he enjoyed his time with the boy greatly, introducing him to the dog and showing him round the various farms on his occasional rounds.

Matthew, when his time was not being stolen away by the necessity of school, loved these pass times immensely and thoroughly looked forward to his time spent with Lord Grantham or Robert or Cora for he loved them all quite dearly. On Saturdays, he'd be left quite to his own devices however, the adults would have jobs and duties they needed to attend to and sometimes Matthew would go downstairs and talk to the servants or visit Mr Carson, whom always shared a smile with him whenever he saw him about the halls, but mostly he wondered aimlessly, armed with nothing more than a general direction and an aptitude for adventure. He had visions of himself as Pirate Matthew, fighting off the bad pirates and protecting his crew- envisioned as his parents and the family at the big house- from the perils and woes of capture. He'd walk out into the vast sloping gardens with Pharaoh at his heels, barking happily while Matthew made whooshing and spitting sounds to accompany his little toy plane that he drove through the air with joyous gusto.

"What are you doing?" The inquisitive, and distinctly feminine, young voice came from behind him. The hand that clutched Matthew's precious toy plane dropped to his side and he turned around to see the girl patting Pharaoh's golden fur as he bounded between the pair of them, tail wagging merrily.

"Oh!" Matthew said in an embarrassed surprise. "Hello Mary," he grinned shyly at her and fidgeted nervously at the seam of his shorts. There was something so enrapturing about her that demanded his attention but simultaneously enfeebled him in her presence. "I thought you were in lessons with Mrs Aldridge and Edith?" He said, a sneaking suspicion he was too bashful to voice niggling at him that she wasn't really allowed to be here. Mary's eyes turned somewhat mischievous, a look Matthew had become accustomed to when playing with her since the stable incident, at the mention of the much-disliked governess and her face glinted with a smile that provoked Matthew's own grin to widen.

"I saw you from the nursery window and snuck out. You looked like you were having fun and Mrs Aldridge is frightfully boring." Mary admitted. Matthew had come across Mrs Aldridge once or twice, mostly meeting upon bad terms as he had demanded her tutees' attention elsewhere and had been caught giving Miss Mary an apple before her dinner time, and he had to admit that the impression she bestowed was ruthless, bad tempered and extremely un-exiting. He wanted to suggest she join him in his game of Pirates but was rather too nervous to bring up the topic, afraid that she might decline as it was not lady-like or simply silly to her to even entertain such a notion as pirates, and when he opened his mouth to say something he was unharmoniously interrupted by Pharaoh barking loudly in direction of the top of the hill where the shadow of a figure appeared; a woman, bony and slender, and distinctly haughty, that snatched the attention of both children for a second as they stared. Just then, she stepped over the brink of the grassy slope declining towards them that had previously cut the pair of them from her sight and immediately clamped eyes on the two young rascals and their dog, calling out for the runaway girl in a lofty shriek of rage that sent Mary's eyes into wide round circles. She grabbed Matthew's hand, "run," she hastily gasped and they both fled as quickly as their legs would take them, turning sharply through the secret garden and down over the open fields until they reached the golden stretch of tall barley that they were forced to wade slowly through. So thick and tall was the crop that the only thing Matthew could see of Mary in front of him was their joined hands that guided him to follow her.

They panted heavily and Mary pulled him behind her, ducking them both neatly into a well-hidden ditch. Pharaoh settled himself comfortably, adjacent to their crouching feet, and made a low purring sound, slapping his tail gently against Matthew's now scuffed red jacket from time to time. Matthew pushed his lips together to hold in his laughter and glanced at Mary who locked her glinting eyes with him and giggled. Footsteps came close to them and startled them in their wake. Matthew pressed his small hand over Mary's mouth to quell her laughter, placing a finger to his own lips as he smiled cheekily.

* * *

As a lady, and the Countess of Grantham no less, Violet would never be outwardly rude to her husband's nephew; James was, as much as she hated to admit it, family after all, and a Lady is never rude, excluding in the implicit, especially not to one's kin. But, alas, James was far too much alike to his mother and, in Violet's esteemed and forever righteous opinion, a nastier woman never drew breath.

"James, you cannot possibly be serious?" Lord Grantham asked, incredulous to his nephew's outlandish proposal. "I know it has been…" he sighed, "…difficult since Felicity died and bringing up your son alone must have been tremendously hard, but he is _your son_. I would encourage you most fervently to rethink your excursion to America as it would, under the circumstances, invariably mean your separation from him." Patrick sighed, he was growing weary of contesting against James after all these years. He liked the boy, very much, he was sweet and good natured like his mother as well as retrieving the better of his father's traits, such as his outgoing personality and confident movements. As it stood, although his son may still bear one of his own, the boy that had been named after him, Patrick Crawley the younger, would stand to be the eighth Earl of Grantham and Patrick was confident he would make a great one. Even so, although he would commend the boy to his care while his own father ventured elsewhere, he could not condone his approval to the scheme. Patrick looked across to the sofa where his wife sat, her eyebrows distinctively raised in her own poorly disguised reproach for the situation. Perhaps if Patrick's own brother and sister in law were still alive, James would have proposed this to his own parents and Patrick would be kept from having any credence of swaying the situation. But they weren't, so here they sat.

"I cannot say I would object to having Patrick live in my home, in fact I feel as though it would be a pleasure to Robert and Cora – although I would have to consult them- and it would be nice for the girls to have their cousin around more permanently, but I urge to please reconsider. You are his father and, like it or not, that prevails on you a duty and a certain life that cannot be avoided. You love your son, in your own slightly misguided way you love your son, and in order to make this change you have to believe this change is best for him." Patrick's eyes were hard and challenging as he glared at his cold-hearted nephew. He'd known James to be lacking in compassion, caddish and even callous or cruel at times, but a child abandoner he was not so this proposal had come as an unwelcome shock to him and Violet too by the looks of it.

"Do you?" Violet asked eloquently. Her gaze was as perfectly intimidating as ever. "Believe it is best for him?" She finished.

"That I do." James said, even toned and assured. "I leave for New York in three months' time. If you can take him, you'll be doing me a great service. If you cannot, I mean to ask either Felicity's sister Margaret or, as his god parents, I will prevail on Susan and Shrimpie."

Patrick closed his eyes momentarily in acute disappointment.

"Very well," Patrick relented, realising his warnings were of no avail. "But on your own head be it."

* * *

"You two deserve a good walloping!" Mrs Aldridge gripped Mary harshly by the wrist and dragged Matthew out of the ditch by the ear. Pharaoh made a valiant attempt to free his friends, leaping up on his hind legs and barking madly at the thunderous woman, but she shooed him away dismissively and instead he trailed behind them sulkily, head hanging sadly after having been caught out on their adventure. Grimacing in the pain of being held by his ear, Matthew vaguely imagined the image of Mrs Aldridge's crooked nose and beady eyes under the brim of a pirate hat, her hook digging into his ear. With a satisfied feeling in his stomach he smiled: he had fought Pirates after all and was being made to walk the plank- all in all, the day had not gone so far away from how he'd planned it. Only Pharaoh, as good a parrot as any pirate had, and Mary, his pirate mate, had to be saved and as he glanced across at Mary's pained expression as she tried to wrench her wrist from Mrs Aldridge's grip.

Matthew batted her away from his ear and tried to tear the evil pirate's hook from his friend. "You're hurting her!" he yelled. "Let her go! Let her go you old cow!"

Furious at this insult, Mrs Aldridge dropped Mary's wrist at once and turned at once on Matthew. "You horrible little boy!" She screamed, "I'm going to take you up to the house and make sure Mr Crawley gives you a good hiding!"

* * *

Robert Crawley guffawed with unbridled gales of hysterical laughter. He clutched hold of the mantel and doubled over, bracing an arm across his shuddering stomach as he turned red in the face with roars of mirth. Cora, who clearly had not found it quite so amusing as her husband had, was now finding it rather difficult to control her own expression of hilarity simply due to the look of completely irate disillusion of the governess's face. Matthew, who had been expecting a few lashes for his misbehaviour just as she'd threatened, looked on in confused trepidation. Mary stood, eyebrows raised, in astonishment at the proceedings.

Robert could not control himself, much to everyone's confounded dismay, and after a good ten minutes he managed, only just, to compose by pulling himself together and wiping the tears from under his eyes. He straightened his tie and made a significant effort to suppress his smirk as he regarded the, now indignant, governess who was no less that incandescent with rage.

"Not only did he call me a cow," she pressed on, ignoring her employer's lapse of regained self-command. "But I believe he is a bad influence on both of the girls, especially Miss Mary." She concluded. "He has led her astray, and I believe he should be most seriously punished."

Matthew looked, eyes wide with fright, at Robert.

"Don't worry Duck," Robert soothed, seeing the look of pure terror dawn on the boy's face, "you aren't in trouble."

Matthew nodded hastily and stole a quick sideways glance at Mary. Robert eyed the two children with a fond suspicion that the pair were in cahoots about some thing or another.

"Why don't the pair of you go back out and play while we talk things over?" Cora suggested to the children.

Mary and Matthew took this chance like a shot and skipped merrily through the door on their way back out into the vast gardens.

* * *

When Mrs Aldridge stormed defiantly out, her resignation note soundly resting upon the desk, Robert and Cora both burst out into renewed fits of laughter.

"Poor Mrs Aldridge," Cora giggled, "I'm afraid she's got it the wrong way around."

Robert nodded his agreement. "I think it's clear to see that Mary is the one who is the bad influence." He guffawed.

"Poor little Duck," Cora shook her head, "If Mary has taken him in, he'll be dragged unwittingly into a revolution."


	5. Chapter 5

**1908**

Isabella Anne Crawley was born on the seventh of July 1905 in her parent's house in rural Scotland, prompting her brother's return from Downton a couple of months afterward. Isabella was a beautiful little girl. She possessed gorgeous blonde curls that hung neatly above her shoulders and bright eyes that were almost as piercing in their brilliant blue as her proud elder brother's were. Despite her tender age, she was wholly ruled by her heart; she was sweet and gentle and kind and thoughtful- much alike to her brother. The siblings were similar in not just their looks but also in their mannerisms as well as their innately caring disposition. But where Matthew was shy and sheepish as a young child, Isabella was outgoing and confident- she sook out conversation- or as much talk as one could manage at such an age- and although Matthew was often messy in appearance, especially in regard to his unkempt blonde locks, and Isabella was always pristine in her looks, he naturally smiled like his sister and laughed just as freely as she did. But Isabella was born with a weak heart and she died whilst asleep in a peacefully still night, but months before her third birthday.

The house was quiet after that. Still and subdued in the loss of the beautiful spirit that had left it. The large garden was barely ventured into, the sight of the flowers the girl had so loved being the consequence of their vision which was too difficult to bear. Isobel worked. She increased her hours at the hospital and worked through as much of her time as was possible, the heartache that came with being idol was abhorrent to her. She needed to be useful, so she found a use for which she was needed. Reggie did the opposite, stopping his work and finding a purpose in revolving his world around his son. He found solace in spending his waking time with Matthew, he walked him to school every morning and back every afternoon. He took him on outings in the car, invented and recounted swashbuckling tales of heroism and gallantry to send him to sleep every night and, when he did return to part time work, brought the young boy along on his rounds. Only the house had become too much of a reminder for them all, a constant recollection of the child they'd lost. Matthew would squeeze his eyes shut every time he passed her bedroom on the journey to his. Reggie would find himself staring at the promiscuous empty chair at the breakfast table. Isobel would be greeted with a different flash of memory upon the entrance of each room and every time she crossed the threshold of the front door. The move was inevitable- a step they had to take on the road to, if not recovery, simply choosing to make do and live as best they could. At first, they planned to move to Manchester. The city would certainly be the necessary change they were seeking, but when the news reached them that Lord Grantham had died, leaving his grieving son to step unto the breech, Reggie proposed they move back to Downton under changed times. After all, they had missed their friends over the years, Matthew especially, and Reggie felt that it was his duty and his allegiance to pay homage and respect to Patrick Crawley Sr as well as to help his dearest friend through the time of grief and hardship so he could become evolved into the responsibility that was bestowed to him at birth. For, Mr and Mrs no longer, Robert and Cora were now entitled as Lord and Lady Grantham.

The Great House, it seemed, was impossible for Matthew not to fall in love with again. In the three years he'd been apart from its beauty to behold of its serene setting, perhaps some of its more magnificent qualities had been lost to him. Upon his return, however, he found himself inexplicably drawn to the splendour of the place. The sloping grounds and vast gardens were a wonder to any child and after so much sadness held in the silence following Isabella's death it was more relief than anything else that filled his heart when the warmth of the world and the joys of other families were still existing in the people he'd once known in the village. In all the grief and anguish that had plagued him over his sister, and then the addition of the late Lord Grantham, Matthew felt ashamed that after a mere few months he had begun to wish that it was all just over. He felt inordinate amounts of guilt and compunction over the feelings that he pushed away in order to not offend or disgust anyone. It wasn't that he didn't love his sister- on the contrary- he had loved her with all his heart and her death had pained him beyond imagining, but as the time passed he had come to find enjoyment in more things. He had smiled when Mary hugged him on greeting, he had laughed when Pharaoh knocked him to the ground and proceeded to lick his face eagerly, he had fun when talking to Patrick and had felt elated when he was picked for cricket try-outs at school. And the truth was, he didn't want to feel guilty for being happy anymore. He loved Isabella. He had been so fond of Lord Grantham. He missed them both dearly. But he didn't think they'd want him to be unhappy, and yet he couldn't help but feel that if he showed any kind of joy it was insulting to their memory.

Even so, it was comforting to see familiar faces with happiness graced upon them. It was cheering to be greeted with the frequent call of 'Duck' from Robert and Cora and the warmth of a hug from his old friend and playmate. But during the times when the forced conversation between his parents and false front of forgetfulness over their grief became unbearable at home, Matthew retreated to the library at the big house. The welcoming sight of Mr Carson's smile at the front door was soothing and he would choose a book from one of the shelves and read to forget. Literature was not just a deep-seated passion of his own though, and there came occasion when, on these excursions from his own house, on these excursions from his own house, Robert would find the small boy nestled comfortably under an old desk with an interesting volume of novel for a ten-year-old just as he was on his way to bury himself in the artistic works of fine authors also. The pair of them found ties in the ancient shelf-lined room- a comfort that nurtured their separate dwellings of heartache quite unexpectedly. It was never the less splendid all the same. Robert had found- with unprecedented joy, as it meant he might be the one to introduce the pair- that Matthew had not yet discovered Dickens, and therefore handed to the boy a beautiful leather-bound copy of 'Oliver Twist' one afternoon when his astonishment at this fact drove him to productivity and somewhat paternal investment.

"Look after this, Duck." He had said kindly. "It was mine when I was a boy. Perhaps I was a bit older than you are now – but I believe it will prove a challenge as you're already so advanced."

Matthew had taken the book with an awe of gratitude and begun reading it that same minute.

* * *

It felt strange for them all to be back, just as much as it felt nostalgic and both familiar and unfamiliar to have them back again. Mary felt stuck between a two realities that she couldn't negotiate. Her friend from young childhood had come back and moved into the village with his parents that she so adored and yet it felt as though it had marked the change in her life so to speak. Her father was now Lord Grantham, her mother Lady Grantham. Her granny had moved out to the Dower house and now her beloved godfather, Isobel whom she'd always secretly admired, and Matthew with whom she shared the very best memories that she'd treasured and kept for so long on her own, were back living in Crawley house in the village. She felt somewhat out of place, unsure how to initiate any kind of revival of their previous friendship because she simply did not know him anymore. They had been seven years old when he'd hugged her farewell at the crowded train station and since then it seemed they had both changed.

* * *

Patrick stepped back, his nimble feet bringing a short halt and then switching it to a jog forward. He made a low jump, bringing his right arm swinging back and then up in a swift semi-circle he released the ball and sent it flying at Matthew who held his bat steadfastly and brought it plunging forward towards the perfect bowl Patrick had thrown where it came into a neat and hard hit that, with a loud and satisfying crack, sent the ball flying straight over Edmund's unsuspecting head and caused his slightly pompous jaw to drop in awe. Matthew grinned at his handy work and Patrick laughed heartily, slapping his friend on the back on his way to fetch another ball from the bucket.

"Well done, Matthew!" He exclaimed happily. "That was a terrific bat!"

"And an even better bowl," Matthew told him. He was modest, probably too much so, and Patrick acknowledged this with a short roll of his eyes as his head crooked into a fond shake of disbelief. Edmund looked on, disgruntled; being Patrick's friend from Eton he was a year older than this middle-class newcomer, and was not best pleased to be shown up by him for yet another bout of cracking bat-man-ship.

"I don't think it was quite as good as my first, eh Patrick?" He put in, trying to boost his own appearance in the eyes of the onlookers as well as his own friend and new acquaintance. Patrick ignored this comment, and Matthew followed his lead, not at all put out by this statement as it meant very little to him whether Edmund was better than him or not. Patrick was used to Edmund's pride and he did not dislike him for it, even if his claims at comments did irritate and disgruntle him at times. He was proud, like so many others that went to his school, and he had good reason to be as he was talented in most areas apart from perhaps tact. Which all came down to why Patrick had taken such a liking to Matthew; when he'd first came to Downton they'd been friends, Matthew was shy and timid at seven and since then he'd come out of his shell, a bit but not much, and perhaps this contrast to his other friends was what endeared Matthew to him so fervently. He was glad he had come back, and told him so upon his return. A sentiment Mary had been too caught up and confused to remember to cast. Despite how neither of them, nor any of the children, had known the precise circumstances as to why Matthew's family had returned.

"Oh honestly," Mary said wearily. "You seem to be under the impression that you're so much more superior at cricket to the rest of us." Her scowl of irritant gave away her disdain for Edmund very effectively. He, annoyed by this aforementioned disdain, challenged her.

"It's not like you could prove any better," he sneered, "girls can't play cricket." His statement was firm and unyielding, even as his indignant gaze was met by Mary's own one of cool collected certainty.

Edith scowled at him from the other side of the side lines, for once agreeing with her sister that this comment was impertinent at best and offending as she was fairly certain that Edmund's assured self-confidence was more than slightly misplaced.

Mary stepped up closer to where the boys were stood and rolled up the sleeves of her dress. "Try me," she glared.

Patrick and Matthew shared an amused and slightly apprehensive glance of mutual concern, both feeling that perhaps Edmund had bitten off a bit more than he could chew by challenging Mary in such a way.

Edmund smirked as Matthew handed her the bat and switched places with her, watching as she took her place in front of the wicket and eyed fiercely as he prepared to bowl.

Again, he took a short run up before he threw. His aim was impeccable and his speed perfect and yet with another, louder, crack Mary sent the ball flying further than any of the boys had managed at all that day. She watched smugly as Edmund's smile dropped quite suddenly from his face. Patrick's eyes widened in appreciative awe, but not surprise, but Matthew's expression puzzled Mary. He looked horrified. Only when she turned back to look at the ball did she realise why.

With a horrible, gut wrenching smash the glass of one of the upstairs windows smashed into the room just as Mary's ball sailed into the house in an incredibly unceremonious fashion. She gasped, frozen still in shock which only doubled when a raucous shriek alerted them all to whose room they'd so unexpectedly invaded. Fräulein Kelder.

"Run!" Patrick demanded, his call stirring all five children into action as they fled as a hurried pack before the woman could poke her head out to catch the culprit.

* * *

"Now, I'm not angry." Robert said slowly, pacing before the lined-up children with the offending cricket ball being thrown and caught absentmindedly in his right hand. "I just want someone to own up and apologise to Fräulein Kelder for the disturbance."

He eyed them all with one eyebrow quirked up, a funny feeling at the back of his brain telling him he knew exactly who the culprit was without even needing to ask the question. To his surprise, Patrick stepped forward.

"It was my fault, Robert." He said calmly, hands clasped behind his back. "I bowled it."

"Thank you for your honestly Patrick, it is indeed admirable, but I wish to know who batted it." Robert declared, smiling at the boy all the same.

"I did it."

Robert turned to the other end of the line where little Matthew stood meekly, having taken a step forward and looking, quite frightened, right into Robert's eye. Mary sighed, rolling her eyes at him. For all his gallantry, Matthew was the most horrible liar she'd ever come across and indeed her Papa saw through him in mere seconds.

"I applaud your loyalty, Duck, but forgive me when I say I do not believe you."

Matthew stepped back and caught Mary's eye apologetically, whereas her look was one of exasperated but genuine thanks. He really was an awful liar.

In the end, Mary resigned to clambering, only momentarily mind, of her high horse to give a deliberately, sarcastically overzealous apology to Fräulein Kelder which, if anything, angered the woman much more than the incident itself. (Which, incidentally, was exactly Mary's thought through intention).

* * *

Reggie came into the drawing room of Crawley house addressed with a curious expression and a, far more curious still, anonymous letter in, what he assumed to be, deliberately disguised handwriting. Walking up to the desk of his wife and standing in front of it meaningfully, he fiddled with the envelope in hand, clearly distracted in deep thought.

Isobel looked up at him, placing her pen down in interested response to her pensive husband and removing her reading glasses from her eyes before placing them down beside her paper with the intention of alerting Reggie to her attentiveness and regard for what he was clearly mulling over with the intention of telling her.

"Reggie, darling, out with it." She said, her usual instructive tone softening lovingly for the man stood so contemplatively before her.

"We've just got this letter," he mused, his tone that of someone whose mind was far away. "I don't recognise the handwriting, but it seems we have a mysterious benefactor," he stopped, his voice slowing to a reluctant halt, then corrected himself, "or, rather, Matthew does."

Isobel motioned for the letter and Reggie gratefully passed it over, watching her changing expression as she read.

"Good lord." She expressed, finishing by folding it up carefully and taking the other thing from her husbands outstretched hand.

"It's a letter, for Matthew, for when he turns eighteen." Reggie told her. His thoughtful musing suddenly turned to unabashed inquisitiveness and, daresay, unapologetic nosiness. "Do you think we should open it?"

Isobel turned her eyes off the envelope reading: Matthew Reginald Crawley, for when he comes of age and glared at her husband. She bashed his lightly with the paper before beginning her reprimand.

"Reginald Crawley! Absolutely not! I cannot say I'm not curious, but honestly!" Reggie laughed and retreated. "The cheek of it!" Isobel continued, albeit with a fond undertone in her voice and expression.

"Still, there's the other question." Isobel acknowledged. "As to what to do with the money."

"Yes quite." Reggie pondered, pacing over to the window and staring out. Isobel rolled her eyes at her husband's thoughtful unproductiveness.

"How about," Isobel suggested, "next year I mean, when he's old enough…"

Reggie turned to look at her, his interest piqued at his wife's proposal.

"I mean, he and Patrick get on so well, and it's the best school in the country." She continued, more to herself than to Reggie. "After all, the better his education, the more opportunities he has."

Reggie nodded.

"How about we send him to Eton?"

* * *

in response to the guest review on the last chapter asking about the Titanic all I can say is that to give the truthful response would be telling.


	6. Chapter 6

**September 1909**

"I say!" Robert exclaimed as Matthew appeared in the doorway of the drawing room. Patrick walked in behind him, smiling rather exuberantly in comparison to Matthew's bashful grin, both dressed head to toe in the splendid freshly pressed tails that demanded the attention of the entire family. Of course, they'd seen Patrick in his uniform before- last year before he'd left for Eton for the first time he'd exhibitioned himself in much the same fashion as this, proud of his new outfit befitting him as a gentleman - but this year Matthew was joining him and so he took pride in being able to introduce his best friend to the world that had been only his for the past year.

"You both look terribly handsome," Isobel said applaudingly. Patrick grinned at her statement and skipped over to her, planting a kiss to her cheek.

"Thank you, Isobel. And may I say you look simply lovely yourself this morning."

Patrick had always been a thoroughly well-mannered boy and he brought a fond smile to everyone's face at the use of his innate outgoing charm. Isobel herself gave an indulgent roll of her eyes and watched on happily as the boy gave a turn to exhibit his new outfit, while her own son stayed comparatively silent.

She did so worry about Matthew going away to school and fervently hoped that Patrick would help to settle him in and rid him of some of the acute bashfulness that rendered him nervous in situations such as these. He was a lot like his father when he was younger in that sense, for Isobel had always been as confident as they come.

Reggie, on the other hand, seemed to be wholly more relaxed at the idea, after all, due to an inheritance from a rather eccentric old aunt, he'd gone to Eton as well and had thoroughly enjoyed his school days- not least because he'd met Robert after a month when the pair of them had wondered out of their dorm after hours when Reggie had put a frog in matron's slippers. He laughed at the memory every time it crossed his mind. Matthew himself, was frightfully intimidated at the notion. He had not shared his father's enthusiasm quite so quickly.

Matthew was unsure where his feeling lay, or even if they were all completely of the same opinion. He was glad, certainly, but nervous. He knew that his connections with the family at the big house gave him uncertain prospects, and he'd been assured that he was most certainly clever enough- more than clever enough- to fit in well and his manner was most agreeable, but he was worried that the other boys would notice how he dressed was different or that his lifestyle wasn't quite as extravagant as theirs. These worries simmered down rather a lot after his father took him into Ripon and bought him brand new sets of suits and tails, shirts, ties and waistcoats – much to his father's amusement- and what Matthew had previously felt as anxiety, now transformed into unbridled excitement.

Mary felt a little put out, watching as her father ruffled Matthew's unkempt blonde hair with an affectionate ease. In the last year or so she'd felt like more of an interloper than a daughter. She'd always been acutely aware of the fact that, as the first born, she should've been born a boy- giving her father an heir to his title and the entailed estate it held with it - but it felt somewhat like she had been so quickly cast aside, replaced and disregarded, with every conversation Matthew shared with her Papa, with every book they read and every outing they took turned him slowly into the son Robert had always wished for. To all intents and purposes, her place seemed to no longer be the eldest child of Lord Grantham and Matthew had unwittingly stepped into the role that should've been hers and duly filled it as well as anyone could have wished for.

In her heart of hearts, Mary knew she shouldn't blame her own feeling of inadequacy on Matthew. It was, after all, not his fault he was a boy and she was not. Nor was it his fault that her father had taken such an interest in him. But she was overcome by the sadness that she had been a disappointment to her parents at birth, and so she found the thought of friendship with Matthew difficult to bear. And, accordingly, she couldn't help but treat him with a teasing hostility.

So, as he stood timidly at the edge of the room in his new suit and tails, she ignored him completely with a disinterested expression on her graceful countenance.

"Well, I must say, I think you two should catch your train unless you want to be late." Violet put in, snapping Mary out of her vengeful reverie and springing everyone up from their seats in order to see the boys into the car to say goodbye.

"Right you are, Aunt, as always." Patrick said happily, practically skipping over to the doorframe and bowing out his farewell leaving behind him a mutually amused smile as everyone laughed.

* * *

"Robert?"

Reggie stepped into the library, his intrigue having peaked since seeing his son off to school as to the circumstances that had led to it. If he was completely honest, he didn't quite believe that his friend was responsible for the mysterious funds supporting young Matthew's education. It wasn't that he believed Robert would not have offered them the money- in fact Reggie felt quite sure that his friend was actually gearing up to do just that even in the knowledge that it would never be accepted- but he did not think that Robert would do it anonymously or without Cora's approval- of whom it had been made clear over the past months had been no more informed on the situation than either her husband, Reggie or Isobel had been.

And although his wife had long-since decided that she was absolutely determined to find out who the unknown benefactor was, Reggie found all the mystery unabashedly thrilling.

The Earl pushed himself up to a more dignified sitting position in his armchair and glanced over to where Reggie stood, grinning, by the door. The evening was beginning to darken beyond the ancient walls of Downton Abbey and Robert sat comfortably next to the flickering fire for a moment more, before raising himself to pour his friend a scotch.

"Ah, Reggie!" He greeted. "What brings you here at this time?"

"I wondered," Reggie started, swirling the caramel coloured liquid round the ornate glass as a force of habit before he sipped. "If I might ask you if you were aware that Matthew had been left quite a tidy sum by an anonymous benefactor?"

Robert's eyebrows shot up in a surprise that immediately confirmed Reggie's suspicions that he'd known nothing of the sort. The man placed his drink distractedly on the mantle and indicated via nod for Reggie to continue.

"I thought you didn't, but I felt I should ask all the same."

"I had no idea," Robert said with a shake of his head. "And you have no indication who it is at all?"

"None," Reggie confirmed. "Although, given that you are the only person of whom we're close to that has this kind of fortune at their disposal, I thought it sensible to inquire- even if to just confirm that I am right."

"You're not often wrong," Robert said, "and, although I do admit the thought had crossed my mind to put forward some money into young Matthew's education, I knew you would never accept it as a gift so I never tried to offer it."

"It seems you are not often wrong either," Reggie agreed.

"Clever chap," Robert observed, "whomever he is, to give it anonymously. As that way, you have no means of sending it back, nor the motivation to do so. Very clever."

Reggie laughed, taking another drink.

"I have to say, my friend, I wish I had thought of such a plan, but I can assure you it wasn't my doing." Robert also took a drink, pondering. "I might ask Cora," he said with amusement, "although everyone is so fond of Matthew that I suppose it could be any number of people."

Reggie smiled, a warmth filling him- one unrelated to the whiskey- to know that his son was so loved.

"And there was no indication over who it might be?" Robert asked again, the not knowing plaguing him.

"None, although Isobel is examining the handwriting in comparison to every Christmas card that we've stored in the attic," Reggie laughed. Then a thought struck him. "There was a letter," he added, catching Robert's interest once more.

"Oh?"

"Yes," Reggie elaborated, "A letter addressed to Matthew on his coming of age. I wanted to read it, but Isobel insists that it is absolutely out of the question to do so and I'm not one to fight a battle I can't win."

Robert laughed. "Let's not, either of us, pretend we can win an argument against our respective wives."

* * *

The train journey had been long, although not particularly arduous. Matthew had Patrick for company who had done the majority of the talking, which he was well used to by now, and taken on the rather abrasive task of explaining Eton life to his thoroughly clueless and terribly nervous friend. He'd embarked first on explaining houses and house masters and house captains and masters and fags and prep and punishment and had broached so many new subjects that Matthew had to concentrate with all his might to retain the valuable knowledge Patrick was bestowing him.

He felt rather lightheaded by the end of it all, hoping fervently that he'd just be able to mind his own business and plough through. He did not like the idea of being called out in prep, and the prospect of actually being caned terrified him. Most of all, he did not wish to live so far away from his mother. He'd miss reading with Robert, talking with Cora, walking with his father, laughing at whatever witty and marginally rude comment the Dowager Countess would mumble over dinner at a volume just loud enough for everyone to hear her. He'd even miss being ignored by Mary.

Mary. Another thought that made him nervous to dwell on. He wasn't certain why she'd made the executive decision that suddenly she didn't care for him or his company, he didn't pretend to know either, at first he'd feared that maybe he'd done something that had unknowingly offended her but after some thought he'd gone over and over all their encounters and couldn't really even put his finger on the exact time she'd decided she no longer liked him. It had hurt his feelings, more than he cared to admit and certainly more than he allowed to show, but he could hold his own in the face of her jibes- no matter how unfounded- and often managed to turn the tides in the direction of giving as good as he'd got. But it had upset him, that he wasn't afraid to clarify- at least in his own mind.

"Oh," Patrick exclaimed, realising he'd overlooked a crucial detail. "When someone asks your name, it's Crawley. No one uses each other's first names."

"Right." Matthew nodded, gulping.

"You'll be fine." Patrick assured him, sensing his nerves. "You're terribly clever and terribly nice, everyone will like you."

He might be clever and nice, but they both knew one person didn't like him. And she was the person that mattered.

* * *

 **November**

Robert sat contentedly at breakfast with his two daughters. By convention, married women were permitted to breakfast in the leisure of their bed. Cora regularly took advantage of this privilege as an indulgence of rank, which explained away her absence that particular morning. She had, however, taken breakfast in bed less frequently as Countess than she had as Viscountess and Robert suspected this might have been a ploy to avoid her mother-in-law when they'd lived together. Downton was a large house, that was certain, but, under the general consensus of all married women, there was no house large enough to accommodate a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law. Especially ones so differing in opinion and culture as Cora and Violet.

Carson stood loyally at the sideboard, almost unmoving, unless he was addressed by one of the family or to give a conspiratory wink at Miss Mary when she shot him a twinkly-eyed smile, until one of the footmen came in to hand him the morning's post which was distributed accordingly.

Robert opened his letter with his mind elsewhere, focussed on an article of the interior page of The Times that he'd only put down for the purpose of sliding the note from its envelope.

"Papa?" Mary asked, placing her fork down for a moment with the purpose of asking him a question that, at least, she considered important.

"Yes dear?" Robert replied, opening his note and beginning to read.

Before Mary could even start her next word, Robert had risen from the table with a smile on his face.

"Matthew has made the first eleven cricket team for next summer!" He announced, not lifting his eyes to look at either daughter. "I must tell your mother!"

Mary's heart dropped.

If Robert had known how much such a simple act had hurt his eldest daughter's feelings, he would never have left the room. But such an envision had slipped his mind.

Edith laughed.

Mary stuck out her tongue at her sister and resumed her toast somewhat disconsolately.

* * *

 _ **A/N:** I'm very sorry this chapter A: was short, B: wasn't very good, and C: took me so long to write considering, but for some reason I found it really difficult to write, (so much so that I actually started writing a story about M&M as single parents instead), so for that I am sorry and I hope you all stick with this as I can say that more things will happen in the upcoming chapters. I also want to know if anyone wants me to have a particular scene/scenario or prompt to include, if so please do tell me, if not then I hope you enjoy where I've headed this story. _


	7. Chapter 7

**April 1910**

Dinner that night had been a tiresome, strange and yet rather torrid affair. It had started off well; Matthew and Patrick had returned for the Easter holidays and a celebration dinner at the big house was thrown, Reggie, Isobel and Matthew included to join the family in their festivities and Mrs Patmore had exceeded herself with the level of banquet they were serves, an amiable feast that put the last supper to shame.

The talk had been good-natured and humorous, the festivities brightening even the darkest of moods, glazing over the most suspicious of questions. The slight tense beginning, when Mary had caught sight of an ugly bruise at Patrick's collar and noticed the fading purple at Matthew's eye and squinted in suspicion, had been pushed out from everyone's minds until the unfortunate turn of discussion that arouse over desert.

The conversation came on to the upcoming hunt, and Robert seemed excited, perhaps more so than usual to play the host, because this year Patrick had turned thirteen and was considered of eligible age to join.

"It will be refreshing to have a young mind amongst our midst," Robert declared happily.

Patrick laughed, his skills on horseback, though admirable, he felt were exaggerated greatly by his cousin and he hoped fervently that Robert had not bragged about his abilities to the house guests too greatly in case their expectations became too much to live up to.

"Well, I certainly am looking forward to it." Patrick nodded agreeably, fork speared with chicken hovering before his mouth. "Although, I must say I am looking forward to next year rather more. It will be exciting to have my friends with me." He glanced between Matthew and Mary as he spoke, shooting each a smile and not-failing to notice with a smirk that, although Matthew awkwardly strayed his gaze from her, Mary looked at him softly. And Patrick had a sneaking suspicion she had no idea she was doing so.

"Well perhaps you could join this year Duck?" Cora suggested.

"Well I don't think it would do any harm," Isobel agreed, smiling.

"What a splendid idea!" Robert put in. "That way you won't have to spend the entire day solely in the company of us old codgers, Patrick," the man joked and laughs reverberated around the dining table, falling silent on Mary alone.

She had been omitted again, but chose not to ignore it this time, whether or not she showed her hurt at the matter she was at least determined to prove herself worthy of at least some attention.

"Matthew doesn't ride," she laughed, rather snootily. The image of Matthew sat astride a horse didn't amuse her in particular, but it was an unfamiliar and estranged sight.

"I ride." He corrected, rather coolly. He would not be a doormat and although her insolence rather irritated him, he was a match for her and she him- both determined not to be walked over by the other.

"And do you hunt?" She asked, it was a leading tone to a dead-end question. She knew he had never been taught about the etiquette of a hunting party and this time she had assessed him accurately.

"No," he told her, "I don't hunt."

"Well I daresay there isn't much opportunity in the village or at school." Violet put in.

"But you're a hunting family," Matthew stated.

Mary sighed down at her plate, smirking playfully. "Families like ours are always hunting families."

"Not always," Robert corrected surreptitiously, an attempt at keeping the peace. "Billy Skelton won't let them on his land."

"But all the Skeltons are mad." Mary objected serenely.

"Do you hunt?" Matthew asked, keeping a casual demeanour.

Silently, both Patrick and Reggie sat inwardly impressed at Matthew's newfound burst of sudden confidence. Neither knowing where it came from, yet appreciating his stance at standing up against Mary's jibes. Reggie thought it was all simply in good fun, the tension between them somewhat amusing, but Patrick knew better.

He knew underneath that this teasing was a playful release of feelings that neither of them ever accepted or observes of themselves and the other alike, and it intrigued him and excited him in equal measure.

"I will next year," Mary answered. "Although I suppose you're more interested in books than country sports."

"I probably am," Matthew admitted freely, uncaring if that made him seem odd in her eyes. "You'll tell me that's rather unhealthy."

"Not unhealthy," Mary shrugged. "Just unusual. Among _our_ kind of people."

The insult was subtle and went mildly unnoticed to those that were not paying undivided attention to the pair, but to Matthew it was a rather low blow- flattening even.

Edith had been listening intensely, equally as interested, although less insightful, as Patrick had been. But Isobel and Cora became uncomfortably aware that the dinner had turned into a duel, a battle of feelings- however unbidden and unnoticed by their owners.

Matthew looked at her with a challenge in his eyes and she felt whatever emotion they displayed as much as he did, the exchange almost softening the previous tension.

The family continued to eat their pudding, this time in silence while Patrick tried slyly, and unsuccessfully, to draw Matthew's eyes to meet his own- wanting to indicate to him that, where he might have looked away, Mary had not.

* * *

"What was that book you wanted to buy in the village the other day, Matthew?"

Patrick scoured the shelves in the big library, searching for a particular title that Matthew had spent a good hour musing in an old bookshop they'd visited a few days ago.

Cora and Isobel had gone through to the drawing room after dinner and Robert and Reggie had stayed in the dining room with their cigars and port. Mary, Edith, Patrick and Matthew- too young to join either set of adults, too old be sent back to the nursery with nanny- had disappeared to the library.

Edith sat writing at the ornate old writing desk belonging to her father. Mary lounged idly by the fire in the warmth of the red armchair, a book held beneath her gaze. Matthew sat opposite, a distance away that appeased her, on one end of the sofa, a separate book in hand. They resolutely ignored each other.

"It was a very old copy of The Tale of Perseus and Andromeda," Matthew answered, glancing as Patrick crossed to search another shelf.

"Are you an avid fan of Greek myths?" Mary questioned, looking up briefly from her less than compelling novel. She said it teasingly, ready to make another go at making fun of him for his nonconformist taste, but she owned a copy of the book herself, indeed she treasured it, and this piece of information piqued her interest.

"I have a soft spot for this one in particular," Matthew answered vaguely. "I find it rather engaging, if somewhat whimsical."

His eloquent analysis matched her own feelings and rather took her back a bit.

"Oh," was her only response.

"This copy was, in particular, rather nice. Old and heavily backed with illustrations that fascinated me as a child. I've lost my version now, but, alas, this one was too expensive for my pocket." Matthew expected her to laugh, or at least make a snide comment about his wealth, or lack thereof in comparison to hers, but she kept silent, regarding him rather strangely.

Patrick noticed this. Matthew and Edith did not.

* * *

"I've discussed it with Reggie, and he thought your idea was rather novel." Robert told his wife, kissing her briefly as he climbed into bed that evening.

"I'm glad," Cora said happily. "Because Isobel agreed to."

"I think Matthew would make an admirable land agent. He works well with Patrick and he does love the place. I miss taking him on my rounds- I knew father used to do the same." Robert mused, tucking himself under the blankets comfortably.

"If he were land agent, I'm afraid we'd have to refrain from calling him Duck so often," Cora laughed easily and Robert joined in, leaning over to kiss her once more.

"I don't think I could get used to that," he joked, settling back down again, reaching for the lamp chord.

"Robert," Cora said pointedly, stopping him before he removed the light from the room. "There's something I must tell you."

A look of terrible concern crossed her husband's face and Cora dismissed it with a gentle kiss, tutting him for jumping to unfavourable conclusions.

"I went to see Clarkson today," she started, her excitement taking hold. "And, well, it seems I am pregnant!"

Robert's face erupted into a delighted grin and he pulled his wife happily into his arms.

"Oh, my darling, that's such wonderful news!"

* * *

Mary escaped to the village to mull over the news. At the end of a few months an addition to the family could either be given in the form of a third baby girl or a first son and heir to the title and entailed estate to boot.

The unexpected burst of rain caused her to make the hasty decision to scramble into the nearest shop and browse slowly before the weather petered out. The bookshop was warm and homely, filled with the scent of dusty old volumes and fresh pages of newly printed novels. She pottered around, eyes gracing briefly over the spines on each towering shelf as her mind wandered elsewhere to the dinner only a week ago when Patrick had mentioned how Matthew had found a rather lovely copy of Perseus and Andromeda.

Only realising it sometime later, she'd started actively searching and seeking out the particular book, wondering between the shelves periodically and creating quite a methodical scouring of the shop.

She found it on the bottom shelf of a dusty, half hidden shelf in the very corner of the room and brought it out from its confining hiding place, holding the delicate pages between her careful fingers as she flicked through to find that Matthew had been absolutely accurate in his depiction. It was beautiful, the pages thin and fragile and the illustrations detailed and colourful.

She smiled, vaguely picturing the younger Matthew from years ago skimming his own hands over the pictures. He'd been a funny boy, even then, and she'd always found him reading in the strangest of places around the estate.

A cunning thought entered her mind and she stowed the book back away behind its counterparts at the very back of the corner shelf so it was practically invisible to someone who was not actively looking for it, obscured by the other spines of its neighbours.

It wasn't that she didn't want to buy it, she very much longed to take it home with her, but she hadn't any money- apparently little girls wandering about with money was frightfully improper, or so Fräulein Kelder said. And it wasn't that she didn't want Matthew to buy it either, despite how it may have seemed. It was simply that she wanted to save this treasure to peruse as her will and the idea of some stranger buying it did not sit well with her. It might have been a selfish thought- and her governess would berate her for being so self-thinking- but she didn't care, and noticing the rain had stopped she wandered out of the shop door, the bell clanging as she left.

She resolved to venture home, not quite having made her peace with the prospect of yet another younger sibling but more so than earlier- the churning in her stomach having ceased by now.

She walked slowly, passing through the square and taking in the scent of the earth after rain.

A shout turned her head to a side street and she stopped in her tracks, nosily watching on as a group of boys from the local school, old boys- much older than her anyway, picked on two others of meeker and smaller stature.

The churning in her stomach started up again when she saw a familiar flash of blonde and blue being knocked to the ground, while an equally familiar countenance with darker eyes and hair stood up for his friend and was subsequently also knocked over.

She observed, frozen, as a fight broke out, or more accurately an admirably pushed back massacre, not knowing what she should do. She felt somewhat ill as an explanation dawned on her for the frequent appearance of different injuries on Matthew and Patrick. She didn't want to think about it, she didn't want to watch, so she ran away.

Halfway into the thick lining of woods that separated the village from the big house, Mary stopped. A guilty feeling swelled inside her and she felt ashamed as her conscience gave her a well-deserved beating for not doing something. But what could she have done? Something, at least, she supposed. Something other than running away.

Regretful, she turned back in her tracks, searching out the place again only to find that neither Matthew, nor Patrick, nor their assailants were anywhere to be seen.

An uncomfortable pit swallowed her stomach and she felt somewhat confused over the worry that seemed to take over. She wasn't supposed to like Matthew, so why did she suddenly feel so strangely concerned for him? How long had this been going on for? She wondered pensively back home, unbridled anxiety giving her an uneasy tingling at the end of her nerves. Why was she so caught up about this? Patrick was her cousin, it was natural for her to feel concern for him- but she'd tried so hard to convince herself that Matthew was not her friend that the fact that she felt so ill at ease for his welfare and upset that he might be hurt, confused her greatly.

* * *

"Mr Carson?"

A knock at his half-closed door drew his attention from the interviewing footman and the voice that accompanied it gave Carson occasion to dismiss the boy and permit Miss Mary to enter.

She did not make appointments to see him and, despite that her visits had declined in the frequency since she'd grown older and begun to take lessons, she came down rather spontaneously, seeking his company or advice or simply a short few words to cheer her during her day.

Carson looked forward to these moments, he'd loved her at first sight and since had come to accept that he loved her like a daughter, and he enjoyed the times in his day when Miss Mary would grace him with her presence. When she was younger, she liked to leave him notes and sometimes gift him pictures she'd drawn that he now kept in his desk drawer. She'd run to him at every new discovery and event, every problem or question and he liked this trust that they shared.

What broke his tender heart, was seeing her eyes tinged with red when she entered, still dressed immaculately in the coat and hat she'd returned from her trip to the village in.

"Miss Mary," he greeted, somewhat stunned. "Are you quite well?"

Mary nodded distractedly and moved closer to his desk.

"Would you like to take a seat?" He invited, pulling out her chair and seating himself opposite her.

"I wondered if you might give me some advice," Mary asked, despite her fragile temperament, her voice came out steady and composed as always.

"I'll do my best, Miss Mary. I can promise you that." He said earnestly, listening intently to her.

"If you saw someone that needed help, but you didn't know how to help them, what would you do?" she questioned. Her eyes locked intently to his and he saw the shining glisten of someone that had been crying reflect back to him. He pondered this, an interesting inquiry and not at all what he had been expecting.

"Well," he started, "I suppose I would ask them if there were anything I might do to assist. Or tell someone else that I knew could offer some help on the matter."

He watched as Mary took in his response.

"Do you know someone that needs help?" He asked kindly.

She nodded silently.

"Did you help them?"

She shook her head. "I didn't know what I could do," she elaborated. "I wanted to… or at least, I know I should have. But now I just feel so… guilty and confused and I don't know what how I feel means or what I should do now…"

He decided not to pry for specific details, respecting the privacy she seemed to desire from her omission of the exact situation in the first place.

"I would suggest you talk to the person," he said. "But don't get too caught up. You shouldn't feel guilt over things you can't solve and sorting out confusing feelings is difficult. If I may say so, you're still very young, Miss Mary. There's no need to be able to understand everything you feel quite so quickly."

"Am I?" Mary asked. "I don't feel it."

"We're all behind you, Miss Mary. If you need any help you know that I'm always on your side." He told her, his voice eminently warm and soothing.

"Thank you, Mr Carson. You've always been so kind to me. Always. For as long as I can remember. Why is that?"

"Even a Butler has his favourites," Carson winked, happy to see a smile emerge on her face.

"Does he? I'm glad."


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: this one goes on a bit, so I apologise if it's a bit wordy but a lot needs to happen and a fair amount of development had to take place in preparation for the next chapter. I also got a bit distracted when editing so there might be a fair few mistakes, so I apologise for that as well._

* * *

 **Summer 1910**

* * *

 _Dear Duck,_

 _I am writing to let you know that we will be taking the ten o'clock train from Ripon to meet with my associate Major Lyndon near Windsor who has agreed to subsequently drive us into Eton to watch you and Patrick in your cricket finals._

 _As I am sure you know, Isobel and Reggie will also be joining us to cheer you on and we are all looking forward to it immensely._

 _We wish you the best of luck my boy,_

 _Robert._

* * *

Matthew had skipped breakfast. He'd picked at his food- pushing it around his plate despondently with his knife and fork before standing up from his seat and abruptly leaving the dining hall to wander down aimlessly to the changing rooms adjacent to the cricket ground. He changed quickly into his whites, sitting on the bench with his nerves palpable to the empty room.

This was not his first game, he'd been far more nervous then- and like the rest of the team before their first game, whilst waiting in the changing rooms he had realised he'd turned a pale shade of green and had been forced to run to the bathroom. But this match was the season finals, and the school was counting on them to win.

Patrick came in next, bouncy and light-hearted as always, changing slowly and choosing to lie down on the bench with a book poised above his head while the rest of the team filed in.

"Did you get cousin Robert's letter?" He asked Matthew nonchalantly.

Matthew nodded. "Yes, they said they'd be down to watch the match."

Patrick had no way of knowing how much Matthew had dwelled on that letter over the last weeks. It was short, a note when put in comparison to his mother's lengthy retellings or his father's dramatic and picturesque descriptions of the mundane every day, and yet Matthew had spent hours contemplating the contents. For once in his life, unlike the other boys who frequently ran amuck during lessons, Matthew had found himself paying no attention to the master at the front of the class and instead found himself wondering what Robert had meant by the ambiguous term 'we'.

It may have simply referred to himself and Cora, surely the Dowager Countess would have no interest in his cricket game- and would without doubt have expressed so to anyone who suggested it- but 'we' could easily mean his daughters as well. Which would mean _Mary_ would be coming to see his game.

He didn't quite know why this made his nerves quadruple on point of thought- it was only Mary, he'd known her forever after all, but at the same time it was Mary and for some unknown reason he felt the immediate need to win the game. He was determined to impress her, to illicit something other than a snide remark about how ridiculous he looked in his whites and if he won- much better if he scored the winning run- then she'd have to be impressed, surely?

He'd dragged Patrick to extra hours of practice because of this, not telling him the reason but rather making up excuses about needing to rehearse his googly or his hit or whatever lame excuse he could spring to mind in that moment.

"Do you think Cora is coming?" Patrick asked casually. "She only has a couple of months to go now."

"I don't know." Matthew answered honestly. "I expect so. She doesn't strike me as the type to wait around until the baby is born."

"No, I suppose she doesn't. Especially if it spites Aunt Violet." Patrick laughed.

"Do you think Mary is coming?" Matthew asked, then hastily added, so he didn't sound obvious, "And Edith?"

Patrick smiled slightly, a knowing glint in his eye that Matthew missed entirely.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Patrick teased. "She wrote to me a week ago, saying that she wouldn't miss it for the world."

Matthew felt a sort of tingling sensation in his stomach, a fluttering of wings threatening to burst from his chest.

"She said that?" He asked, incredulously. His excitement rather got the better of him and he forgot momentarily to keep his voice even-toned.

"She may have worded it slightly differently but that was the gist of it, yes." Patrick answered, smirking behind his book at his friend's badly hidden interest.

Matthew grinned, his nerves flooding back to him once more. _She_ would be in the crowd. _She_ would watch him bat and watch him bowl and this was his chance to impress her.

* * *

"Well I think the winners deserve a kiss!" Patrick grinned, shamelessly tapping his forefinger to his cheek as Mary and Edith walked up to them, ahead of the rest of the family to offer their congratulations.

Mary narrowed her eyes at him and raised a disapproving eyebrow at his antics, pecking a kiss to his cheek despite her own exasperation. Patrick bowed to her graciously and turned his other cheek to Edith who sighed, rolling her eyes and cocking her head to the side, but smiled and kissed his cheek all the same.

Patrick then thrust Matthew forward with a heart pat on the back and he blushed profusely, grinning shyly at Edith as she stood on tiptoe to reach his cheek. He smiled at her, uttering a bashful thank you when she retreated and congratulated him on his win.

"You were really very good," she said. "That was quite a catch."

"Thank you," he blushed again, "I'm so glad you came."

"Me too!" Patrick interrupted, taking Edith's attention off Matthew and leaving him standing rather awkwardly in front of Mary.

Mary shuffled her feet distractedly and looked at Matthew for a second, a question in her eyes as she looked into his. Before he really knew what was happening, he felt her lips grace his cheek, soft and warm against his flushed skin. He froze, surprised into stillness as his heart fluttered in his chest.

"Well done, Matthew." She squeezed his hand in hers for the briefest of seconds and her whisper rang in his ears like a cry of happiness. They were the most civil words she spoken to him in a long time.

Clearly, his plan had at least been somewhat effective.

He wanted to say something to her, make her laugh with a witty comment just as Patrick would have done, but he couldn't get the words to leave his mouth and instead stood somewhat dejectedly as she turned back to her cousin and sister.

"Well done, Duck." Robert clapped him happily on the back. "That was quite a catch!"

"We're so proud of you darling," came his mother's delighted voice.

"I say this calls for celebration!" Reggie declared.

"Absolutely! Cora agreed.

Amongst all of the appraisals, Matthew glanced back at Mary. Her delicate countenance had regained its usual stoic and cold expression, and, with that, he knew that things had returned to their sullen normality.

"Cora!" Came Patrick's greeting cry. "My darling, my dream, my boat, how are you? And Isobel, looking radiant as ever!"

Laughing at his friend's antics, Matthew's attention was drawn elsewhere.

* * *

 **September 1910**

* * *

Sybil Cora Crawley was born on the beautifully sunny day of the first of September in the early hours of the warm afternoon. With light eyes and dark hair, she seemed to be the equilibrium between her parents' other two children and, where Edith was a quiet baby and born easily, and Mary was anxious as an infant and her birth a nerve-wracking struggle, Sybil was placed somewhere along the middle.

The lack of an heir should have raised tumult, but it had the opposite effect. The family's trepidation was set more at ease- girls may have been a challenge, if Mary and Edith were anything to go by, but it was what they were used to and for some reason it relaxed them. The situation had not changed and that was the way it was. Violet's mild disappointment was quelled at the sight of the squirming baby and Robert couldn't have been downhearted at the welcoming of a new daughter if he tried.

Mary wasn't entirely sure of her feelings, a boy would have meant change which she was never keen on, but she couldn't help but wonder if a girl would be just as troubling as Edith. The latter, rather ironically, felt much the same.

Patrick, at first had been concerned, worried that if the baby was a boy he would perhaps be regarded as more unwelcome- after all, he would no longer be the heir and, therefore, he would most likely be overstaying his welcome. Before the child was born, however, Cora had addressed this worry and dismissed it as nonsense. Patrick was a part of their family and, heir or not, of course he would stay for however long he wanted to.

Matthew was pleased, mostly relieved, after the belated knowledge at his own parents' struggles and his beloved Isabella's illness, that Cora had made it through the birth unscathed and his father had deemed both mother and baby to be in perfect health.

However, in light of baby Sybil being a girl, a couple of months later came a letter from the long absent technical heir. James Crawley wrote to Robert announcing a return to England in the mid-months of next year, outlining his intent to be of an important and grave nature yet not indulging in any details further than that of which he'd declared.

He was returning, and he needed to discuss some matters with Lord and Lady Grantham. There was no mention of his son whatsoever and, for that reason, The Dowager Countess had insisted they did not tell the boy until his return was imminent. She regarded these circumstances as rather detestable, and made no attempt to hide her feelings from her son and daughter-in-law. The man had not seen his son in six years, and this was lower than merely dishonourable in her esteemed opinion.

* * *

 **July 1911**

* * *

The annual house party was a scene that was looked forward to unanimously by the entire family. And, amongst the children, it brought its usual unbridled excitement, but, this year, the adults felt more ill-at-ease as the last night approached. It had gone by smoothly, Cora had put a swift stop to Robert's gambling before it all got out of hand, and Violet had very efficiently found out, and then proceeded to discreetly meddle with, the gossip of the latest ventures. But the last night brought the promise of James' arrival, and although Patrick had decided long ago to leave his father's motives of leaving him unquestioned, the rest of the family had become rather unnerved by it.

James came with no luggage and no intention to stay longer than however long was necessary to give out his apparent important news. He was brought immediately away from the merry party in the main hall and joined Robert, Cora and Violet in the, otherwise empty, drawing room.

Patrick took that moment to excuse himself from Laura Kenton, one of Mary's friends of whom he'd taken the last dance, bowing to her gracefully as he shifted over and into the dining room where he stood at the closed door that led to the drawing room, and listened.

 _"I think it is high time I showed my son the way of life I have built for myself in America."_ Came the unfamiliar tones of his estranged father. _"I would like to take him with me the next time I return to New York and then, when the time is right, we will both return to England and build a new life for ourselves here."_

 _"But what of his education?"_ Robert inquired.

 _"Surely it wouldn't be right to take him out of school when he is so settled."_ Cora agreed. _"He has such good friends and he's getting on really well."_

 _"What do you have in mind, James?"_ Violet asked with a curious suspicion, regarding her nephew with hard eyes. _"You must have something in mind."_

 _"As a matter of fact,"_ James said meaningfully, _"I do."_

* * *

All five girls giggled secretly at the edge of the dance floor. The adults danced and talked naturally, showing them little to no attention and instead speaking to the other Lords and Ladies, Viscounts, Viscountess' and so on. For the nights of the house party, their children entertained themselves in their respective groups.

Whilst the boys stood in a group together, engaged in their own talk- whether about amusing moments they had shared at school or a mutual disdain for their masters, the girls did not care- but they often looked over across the hall, occasionally discussing the girls themselves in hushed whispers. That night, it was Katherine and Mary that pulled the most attention.

"Her dress is simply divine."

"I think I'll ask her to dance."

"Good luck getting Lady Mary to dance, she has never danced with any of us before."

"Ask Katherine, Mary has standards that no one can match."

Matthew sighed, he supposed there was no chance she'd dance with him then.

On the other side of the magnificent hall Laura, Edith, Mary and Flora listened, enraptured, to their friend Katherine's scandalous tale of how Donald Knight had kissed her on the pavilion at her last ball.

"He told me I was the most beautiful Lady he'd ever seen," she said, haughtily, her voice smug and nose aloft as if to consolidate her sneery demeanour. They'd long since learned not to laugh at her slight lisp. Katherine was very pretty, they all had to admit it. Mary knew she was by far the prettiest of all of her friends, including herself (much to her chagrin), and wasn't at all surprised that Donald had kissed her whilst he had the chance.

"What was it like?" Laura questioned, leaning forward in awe.

Katherine hummed vaguely in a rather complacent, self-satisfied manner and pouted. "Well, _you know_ ," she said pointedly, knowing full well that they, in fact, did _not_ know.

"He said he'd wanted to kiss me for ages. And that he wants to do it again."

"Imagine," Flora said wistfully, "a boy saying he's wanted to kiss you for ages…"

"Yes, imagine," Katherine responded, sneering, rather rudely directing her eyes at Mary, who felt her usual confidence fall at the comment.

They talked for a while longer, but Mary barely paid attention or heed, taking a short moment to shoot a disdainful look at a rather old man that was staring at her from across the room. She took a moment, wrinkling her nose in disgust, to recollect his name: a Mr Reynolm. Shuddering, she ignored it and turned her focus to more pressing matters.

She couldn't help but dwell on the thought that no one had ever told her she was beautiful, let alone expressed any kind of interest in kissing her.

Maybe no one ever would.

Maybe she wasn't beautiful.

She felt a small pang of envy for Katherine and an even bigger worry that perhaps she was just ugly and unapproachable and no one would ever love her like Mr Darcy loved Lizzie or how the other protagonists in her novels declared to be in throes of madness, so strong was their mutual affection. Perhaps she'd remain un-kissed until she died as an ancient old spinster.

Feeling rather dejected, melancholy, and with an enormous blow to her confidence she excused herself quietly from the group and ventured out of the crowded hall, going over to sit on the deserted front steps to the house and running her nails smoothly along pale stone beneath her.

Dazed and a little dizzy from all the party antics and excitement, Matthew watched her leave with confusion and concern. Slipping silently away, he ventured out into the entrance hall, following her tracks and stepping outside after her.

Seeing Mary sat on the steps, he gave a small smile at the way in which her long, dark hair flowed down her back and sat down next to her, exhaling loudly and turning to her, grinning. He hoped fervently, that if he made the first move of mending aggrieved fences, she might forget old quarrels for a moment.

Except he frowned when she turned to look back at him sadly. She looked uncharacteristically unsure, which, coming from Mary, were unusual enough to cause him worry.

"Are you quite alright Mary?" He itched to take the hand that lay forgotten on the step by her side.

She looked at him, biting her lip hard before speaking.

"Katherine was telling us that Donald Knight kissed her," she said, sounding rather quiet. Matthew urged her on with an encouraging nod. "And I just… what if no one ever wants to kiss me? What if no one's ever interested in me at all?"

She sounded dejected, as if all the self-confidence she usually showed had evaporated on the spot.

Matthew raised an eyebrow, his worry receding.

"Mary, that's silly." He said, his voice not unsympathetic as much as simply disbelieving.

"And now I'm silly as well am I?"

"No." Matthew hastened. "No, I didn't mean you _are_ silly, just that you're _being_ silly."

Mary frowned. "What difference does it make?" She sighed, rubbing her eyes firmly.

"It makes a difference because I am certain that you'll be surrounded by suitors who'd give anything to kiss you when your season comes." Matthew told her, a little awkwardly but truthful none the less.

"You don't know that." Mary shook her head, raising her eyebrows disbelievingly.

"Oh, but I do." He smiled cheekily before looking sincerely at her. "You're beautiful, Mary. You're so, so clever and, however much you may hide it sometimes, I know you've got such a kind heart. When you enter a room, everyone notices and anyone who would not want to talk with you or kiss you is a fool."

Mary looked at him, bewildered, still not accepting what he was saying.

 _Why was he saying this, being so kind and understanding toward her?_

Except suddenly, and quite, quite unexpectedly, his lips were on hers, so tender and gentle and soft that she lost all the air in her lungs quite at once.

His thumb brushed over her cheek and his hand cupped her jaw. He leant back and pressed his forehead to hers, then let his hand drop away as he stood back up. He leant down, stood upright before her, in a bow, and took her hand in his.

"Lady Mary Crawley," he asked, an intense sincerity glinting in his bright eyes, "may I have this dance?"

Mary, still in shock, regained herself to feign pondering his question. All thought of her attempts to dislike him were quite forgotten in that moment and she squeezed his hand to indicate her answer, preceding the words she found herself struggling to utter in that moment.

"Why of course you may," she said finally, smiling.

They walked hand in hand to the hall.

They had both danced before, in lessons with her governess or in practice at his school, but in those previous circumstanced had they'd both still been learning to turn their clumsy movements into graceful ones, their eyes had been trained on their feet and their steps had been uncertain.

This time they were in a room filled with people but it felt as though they were alone; their moves were graceful, elegant and innate. His hands guided her gently and their feet moved of their own accord, with their eyes looking into the other's the whole time.

They did not speak, and their hold was close, nearing an embrace that both had to stop themselves from initiating.

It was over all too soon, and Mary was dragged away by the group of girls, pulling her away into their giggling circle once more.

"Did Matthew ask you to dance?" Laura asked her, seemingly excited in contrast to Katherine's petulant expression.

Mary nodded, still in rather a confused whirlwind from the events of the last few minutes.

"He's rather sweet, wouldn't you say, Edith?" Flora asked.

"Yes. I would," Edith teased her sister. "Mary evidently thinks so."

"I think he's rather handsome." Laura put in, smirking at Mary.

"I think I might get some air," Mary said suddenly, pulling away from the group and making her way out of the crowded and heated room.

She wondered idly away from the house, the cool night air doing nothing to clear her raging and confused feelings. Knowing Carson was busy attending to the myriads of quests, Mary made for the stables, seeking a quiet moment with her beloved horse to mull things over properly.

She entered the building slowly, approaching Diamond with a soft smile and patting her head affectionately.

A shuffling of straw behind her alerted her to the presence of someone else behind her and she turned, keeping one hand stroking Diamond's mane and seeing Mr Reynolm out of the corner of her eye.

* * *

Matthew left the hall as soon as the dance ended, moving off through the rooms in search of Patrick who had seemingly disappeared since his father had arrived. Matthew hardly blamed him for seeking solitude in the light of James' strange return, he couldn't fathom how it would feel to have not seen his father in six years and it was impossible to imagine his own father doing anything of the sort.

He found him fairly quickly, stood next to the door in the dining room that backed onto the drawing room. Matthew was about to speak, to rush hurriedly to his friend and spill over all the strange events of the night, but he was stopped by Patrick's guarded look and hard eyes. He beckoned him over and indicated for him to listen.

 _"With the arrival of your third daughter, comes the unlikelihood that an heir in your direct line will be produced, are we all agreed on this?"_

Matthew only vaguely clocked the voice as James', the unfamiliarity his only clue to of whom it belonged.

There was a murmur of ascent from within the room.

 _"Well, I know yours, and your late father's, desire to keep the estate in the family,"_ he continued, clearly addressing Robert in this instance, " _But I am also aware of the contract Cora signed over when you married, entailing the money to the estate."_

Matthew's eyebrows furrowed.

 _"It is unfortunate that such an agreement means that little is provided for your eldest child in the way of her rightful inheritance. But I believe I have the solution to these concerns."_

Patrick's eyes widened.

 _"I wish to know your thoughts on my proposal that once Mary becomes of age, when she has been presented and her season has been enjoyed at its fullest, she should marry Patrick."_

An aghast silence followed. But before the immense shock of the previous statement could be processed by either of the two boys, they heard a distinctive thud of footsteps approach the door and thus scrambled away in a panicked speed.

They moved together, negotiating the crowded hall to wonder out into the open gardens where they stared, wide eyed in surprise, at either each other or the ground. Unmoving and unspeaking.

* * *

When she saw him close the door slowly behind him, the only thought that passed fleetingly through her mind was the immediate need to escape.

 _Go, Mary, now_.

And with that thought, she regained motion, turning from the stall where Diamond stood so peacefully and started for the door.

"I'm leaving." She said defiantly, her tone decidedly solid and strong. She wouldn't let herself be intimidated. Not by anyone.

He stepped in front of it, blocking Mary in. "Not yet."

 _Breathe_ , she told herself as her lungs started to seize up in panic. She pushed her fearful thoughts to the back of her mind, pushed the lump down her throat, and opened her mouth to challenge him.

"I'll scream," she said.

"No one will hear you." Was his cold reply. Mary flinched.

"What?" She said dismissively, unbelieving of his audacity- to talk to her like this, to behave in this manner. Then she thought of all the others in the hall, dancing and chattering with all the music and laughter and gaiety of the house party and realised the indignant nature of her question- of course they wouldn't hear her. How could they?

"Even if someone did- what a scandal it would cause! The eldest daughter of Lord Grantham no less found unchaperoned in the stables with a man- all the doors in London would be slammed in your face before even your debut!"

His words were like hot ice. They hit her gut first, then spread in all directions. Filling her ears, elbows, knees, toes— his hot breath coming closer and more deplorably to her still and she shuddered under it. He stood, towering over her, impossibly, horribly close, taller than she noticed earlier, bulkier, blocking any way out to safety and the ability to breathe.

She felt his eyes on her then, trailing from her hair, down her body, lingering in places they didn't belong— had no right to be- and for the first time in a long time, she felt like a helpless little girl.

A child.

He stepped closer, his hideously boiling breath singeing her skin and causing her eyes to screw shut in terror. She was shivering. Her bones and blood were on full alarm—it was a primordial instinct, passed down from a thousand generations of women who, like her, feared the inevitable and had been surrendered powerless in its wake.

He whispered the words again, the words that crushed her heart and hope in one colossal stamp.

"No one will hear you."

And she was left in despair.

"Nothing will happen," he said, his voice thick. "Nothing you don't want."

And in that tone, she understood—she knew—she was not his first. But she could make sure she was the last.

"Move." She demanded, kicking and struggling with all her might to wrestle free from the weight of his chest pressed so heavily to hers. He reached out, griped her arm just above the elbow. It was firm and painful.

"Why would you say that to me?"

 _Scream, Mary_.

"You want this," he whispered, leaning his head closer. She could smell his breath, every ounce of it ashy, smothering and revolting, making her gag.

"I know you want this."

A scream had been boiling in her stomach, and was about to scratch out her throat, when he placed a harsh hand hard against her mouth. His grip was aggressive.

 _Scream_.

She felt sick.

 _Scream_.

His lips were slimy.

 _Scream_.

She kneed him hard, as hard as she could, and with the shocked release of her mouth, she screamed.

* * *

"You like Mary though," Matthew reasoned.

He felt an uncomfortable tugging in his chest as he said the words, the thought of Patrick and Mary being wed not sitting as a comfortable prospect in his head or his heart. He didn't see any way of expressing this without feeling so terribly foolish. Why should he feel so misplaced, like his insides had been twisted and squeezed, over the thought of two of his friends married? Was Mary his friend? He wasn't sure, not anymore. But Patrick and Mary liked each other well enough, they knew each other, they got on, it would keep the title in the family. So why did he feel so suddenly mixed up?

He thought of Patrick married to an unknown person with an unknown face and he felt no qualms about that thought. He thought of Mary married to an unknown man with an unknown face and felt his stomach drop in protest, immediately feeling an urge to punch the unknown man in his unknown face. But when he thought of them both joined in matrimony he just felt peculiar.

Odd. Mangled. Sad. Disappointed. Upset. _Jealous_.

Oh god. He was in love with her.

Suddenly the image of himself sliding a golden ring onto Mary's finger flitted into his mind and he felt a tingling warmth spread through his body. He thought of the moment on the steps when he'd kissed her and felt his mouth twitch into a tender smile. He thought of the moments when their strange quarrel seemed forgotten- when they'd danced, when he'd caught her laughing at one of his jokes or catching his eye to smile across the dinner table at some ridiculous notion of a boring and aged guest.

He'd loved her for much longer than he'd known.

But she could never be his. She was promised to Patrick now. And despite the fact that their prospects were well suited and Patrick was his best friend, Matthew felt a pang of envy.

"You do like her." Matthew repeated. He pushed his own feelings away. He had to make things ok. For Patrick.

"Oh Matthew," Patrick shook his head. "I love Mary." He said simply, and ache in his voice that resonated a complexity in his feelings. "Of course, I do. But not in the way I'm supposed to." He told him. "Not like you do."

Matthew raised his head and turned his gaze from his feet to meet Patrick's eyes.

"I've known for a while." Patrick confessed. "Longer than I think you have." He smiled slightly at his friend, a sad and sorrowful but ever so genuine smile.

"But if you love her you could make it work. It wouldn't be so bad, would it?" Matthew's own words pained him but he spoke them out of regard for his friend, desperate to make it ok no matter how much it hurt.

"Matthew, we couldn't make each other happy." Patrick argued, realising that for all Matthew's intellectual values and formidable intelligence there were some things even he could be remarkably blind about.

"Mary is my cousin and a dear friend. I don't believe we would be unhappy together, but I believe we both deserve someone to make us happy. And despite how it may look on paper, we really aren't well suited."

"But…" Matthew protested, not really understanding his friend.

The way he saw it, there wasn't much choice afforded to them in the matter of their marriage, nor much room to manoeuvre. At the end of the day, if Robert and Cora agreed to the plan, Patrick and Mary would have to marry and Matthew believed they might have a chance at happiness, however much it hurt him, but only if they both gave it a chance.

"I can't make Mary happy," Patrick interrupted. "But you can."

Matthew shook his head, filled with a sadness that always struck him when Mary took her jibes or teasing too far. It hurt. "Mary despises me." He said, voice a little choked and tone a little rueful.

"Mary could never despise you." Patrick told him, his stern tone forcing Matthew to believe him. "I see the way she looks at you. Even if you don't." He smiled slightly, musing on the glances he'd noticed she had sent him when he wasn't looking, the look in her eyes when she'd danced with him, the love in her stare when he had come back after the first holiday of third year.

"You're a good man, Matthew. You can make her happy. Just like you could make me happy."

Matthew's eyes furrowed at his comment, not understanding its capacity and missing the shot of meaning Patrick had meant for it to hold.

"But, if you just tried- put some belief into it- I think you could make the marriage work. I know it would hurt me, hell it would hurt me beyond imagining. It would break my heart. But the way I see it, you can't get out of this. You might as well try to be happy rather than end up being marrying anyway and be miserable." Matthew said, overlooking what Patrick had just insinuated.

Patrick shook his head in frustration, willing his best friend to understand.

"I don't think about Mary that way!" he said.

There was a moment of silence.

"But Mary is everything anyone could ever want surely? How could you not?" Matthew simply couldn't see it. How could any man possible not fall in love with Mary?

"You think that way because you're madly in love with her." Patrick said, a light in his eyes that proved how glad he was that his cousin was so loved by such a good person. "I don't think of Mary like that. I don't think of any girls like that."

 _Surely_ , Patrick thought, _surely Matthew would understand no_ w.

Matthew looked at him blankly, still not understanding what Patrick was telling him. Or trying to tell him at least. He couldn't help but find his friend's ignorance mildly amusing, despite himself.

Suddenly, without any foreword or warning or indication, Patrick leaned closer to Matthew and kissed him.

With his friend's hand on his cheek and lips on his own, Matthew didn't have time to get over his initial shock before Patrick had pulled away and rested his forehead against Matthew's. He then took a step back and attempted to gauge Matthew's reaction.

Startled, Matthew didn't move, his eyes remaining wide in surprise.

"When you said I could make you happy," Matthew stammered, "you meant…"

"yes." Patrick nodded.

"Oh." Was all Matthew could muster.

"I know you don't feel the same." Patrick started. "I knew you never would. I know you love Mary. But the truth is I love you. That's why I could never make Mary, nor any woman, happy." He looked down at his feet. "If you despise me, then I won't be angry. Truly." Patrick said. "I realise there is a chance that you'll no longer want to be my friend and…"

Patrick was cut off by Matthew's chest colliding hard with his and his arms wrapping around him in a tight hug that very near knocked the wind out of him.

"I do love you Patrick." Matthew said over his shoulder. "Not in that way. But you'll always be my friend and I could never despise you."

Patrick buried his face in his friend's neck, relishing the wonderful weight off his shoulders after his confession as well as the wonderful weight of Matthew's chest against his own.

Their tight, heartfelt embrace was broken all too short by the sound of a terrible scream that almost buckled Matthew to the ground.

Like a shot, both boys sprinted over to the source of the noise, bursting through the stable doors.

* * *

Tears gathered in her eyes when no one came.

His hand clamped over her mouth once more and his forearm pressed up against her throat. There was no air. No hope. Her glassy eyes closed and her feet dangled, struggling to touch the ground before she went limp- and then she flopped to the ground, sliding down the wooden door into a heap in the straw.

She opened her eyes slowly, afraid that she'd blacked out and perhaps he had claimed her in the time she'd been unaware of.

But she hadn't.

He hadn't. She was ok. And what she saw came with a gasp of final relief because Matthew and Patrick had wrestled him off of her and tackled him to the ground between them.

She was not alone.

Seconds later another silhouette came charging in through the doorway and processed the scene without aid.

The glimpse of light he was caught under was enough for Mary to tell who it was.

Reggie.

She breathed out a sigh of blessed relief.

Reggie pushed the two boys off the man and slammed him, hand at throat, into the wall. Saying something venomous that went unheard by the others as Matthew and Patrick scrambled over to Mary at once and crouched either side of her, unresponsive and in desperate amounts of shock.

"Are you alright?" Patrick asked hurriedly, gripping her shoulder. Mary wrenched her arm from him and turned her tearful face away, hiding it in her hands.

"It's alright, Mary." Matthew placed a gentle hand on her cheek and stroked a thumb under her each of her eyes in turn to catch her tears. "We've got you."

Patrick took her hand and helped her up and when she stumbled Matthew wrapped a tender arm around her shoulders to hold her up. She leant on him and rested her head on his shoulder.

Both boys gallantly removed their jackets to wrap soundly around her shoulders and they walked out as a group, headed for the servants' entrance to avoid the stares of the party in the halls.

As her fractured nerves simmered down to a more controlled temperament, the feeling of Matthew's embrace quelling her shuddering with their powers of immaculate comfort, she couldn't help but feel rather proud of herself.

She'd stood up to him and she'd got away. She was strong and her strength had saved her.

"I'm alright." She told them. She would not be victimised, not in anyone's eyes. "Thank you."

* * *

They had been promised a night party of their own and, with Mary still in mild agitation, Edith and herself had truced for one night and snuck together down the darkened corridor with candles in their hands to rouse both boys in their respective rooms. All four of them then moved to Patrick's bedroom, lying side-by-side on the floor by the fire, giggling and talking so far into the night that eventually it was exhaustion that claimed them, falling asleep packed in a row like sardines and relying body warmth to keep them sound.

Patrick was the last to succumb to sleep, seeing the fire about to die into its embers, he got up from his place between Matthew and Edith and retried some of his blankets from his large, four-poster. He laid one over Mary and Matthew, noting with a smile that they were huddled together closer than Mary would allow had she been awake and the other over himself and Edith.

Regardless of what happened- marriage agreement or no marriage agreement, whether he would leave with his father or whether he wouldn't, in that moment, Patrick was happy and was sure his friends were also.


	9. Chapter 9

**1912**

The sky was a vibrant and beautiful blue, exhibiting no such hindrance to the brilliantly shining sun in the form of even a single wisp of cloud.

The Spring morning was offensively bright and backwardly cheerful, as if the singing birds, the blossoming trees and the blooming flowers all conspired between them to show them all how the world rolled on without their friend and cousin. It felt wrong, like nature had no right to be so upside down.

Today of all days.

The figures moving up to the church were doused in black mourning suits and dresses. Robert greeted them all at the arched entrance with a sombre handshake and the waxy faces all blurred into one large mass, seating themselves in the pews behind those reserved for family and friends.

Mary glanced around every now and then, the pew across the aisle from where she, her sisters, her mother and her granny sat contrastingly empty. It had been reserved for Reggie, Isobel and Matthew and she hadn't seen any of them since the news had been broken. Not when they'd been told that Patrick had gone, not when they'd discovered that his body had been recovered from the water.

Frozen.

She knew they were all still in the village, Matthew hadn't gone back to school quite yet, staying and having a tutor give him lessons much like their governess did until the funeral was over and a short mourning period had passed. But as much as it angered her that her father still spoke more often of Matthew's successes than he did of his own children's, she had missed him in the time he hadn't visited. She didn't know if that made her selfish or crude- if she voiced the thought out loud whether or not others would be appalled. Patrick should be consuming her thoughts now, and he did, very much so, but even during the nights in which she and Edith curled up in Sybil's bed for comfort, she found her mind wandering to how Matthew was coping.

When he appeared in the doorway of the church, pale faced in black tie, tails and top hat, it was clear he wasn't.

She watched as he shook hands with her father, Robert gently rubbing his shoulder before he left to sit down. He looked like a silhouette of himself, walking through the aisle at a slow and serviceable pace with his parents behind him. He didn't look at her once, taking a seat at the end of the wooden pew and staring straight ahead with his red-rimmed eyes.

Matthew couldn't help but wish he could become as insubstantial as the shadow he cast simply to stop his twisted insides from feeling so mangled. His hat sat neatly on his lap and he rested his hands atop it absentmindedly, forcing his eyes to stare in a direction where nobody else could witness his tears.

He heard every raw and morbid word of the service.

Mary barely heard a single murmur.

Her head remained bowed throughout, to conceal her grief from the others. It was not proper to exhibit such displays of emotion when one was a lady- Fräulein Kelder had drilled such lessons into them many times and, dislike her as they did, Mary and Edith found them difficult to forget.

But once they were outside, standing around a newly dug crater as the coffin was slowly lowered beneath the earth they stood on, it proved difficult, for Edith especially, to keep her sobs in check.

She didn't want to say goodbye to him. Not yet. Not ever.

It was strange, for once in their lives the two sisters felt the same thing and acted in similar ways. They'd never been more distant from themselves than they had been in the past weeks. Part of their bitterness had ebbed away, seemingly to make way for the grief they both shared.

Sisterly compassion was a quality near never felt by either of them, unless it was directed toward Sybil, but in that moment, where they could both tell what the other was going through, there was a small inkling of empathy born.

Mary took her sister's hand and squeezed it.

* * *

Matthew had ventured through the village in search of a peaceful reprieve many times over the past weeks. His walks had taken him far a field and close to home in equal measure, giving him the opportunity to grieve for his best friend in solitude. In a way, school would be a relief from the constant reminders that Patrick wasn't with them now. Him being a year younger, Matthew would only see Patrick at meal times, in the dormitory, or on the cricket green.

They had no lessons in each other's company and the memories there would be mere infrequent recollections in comparison to the bombardment of flashbacks that accompanied him at Downton.

He still went with Robert on his rounds, he was to be trained up as the land agent and would not shirk his duties- especially given that the presence of the Earl set him more at ease rather than turning his mind to his missing friend. Pharaoh could almost bring a smile to his face, licking his hand as he walked and running ahead before bounding back to make sure Robert and Matthew were still following.

But sometimes, he sought out quiet moments to walk alone and when the funeral had brought his heart to the brink of breaking, he took the chance at the end to stride off, away from the crowd of guests, and everyone else that watched him leave with quiet sighs of a pitied sorrow. Robert had wanted to follow, Cora had urged him to go, but he had to play dutiful host of the reception and needed Reggie to assist him in the Augean task of streaming the guests to the house. Violet, in the end, sent Mary after him and faced little battle at the suggestion. Mary had neither the energy, nor the heart to refuse her granny's wish and so she walked calmly after him, shunting away her tears with a quick dab of her handkerchief.

His step was quick, his burning throat and throbbing eyes forcing his gait to drive his legs faster away before he broke from the pressure of having to see the golden emblazoned plaque reading _Patrick James Crawley_ in neat and perfect lettering.

Turning a corner, his eyes tuned to the gravelled ground beneath his polished shoes, he ran headlong into someone and collided with them hard, being thrust backwards violently by their angered hands.

"Why don't you watch where you're goin'?" Came a loud shout from whomever it was. The voice was abrasive, harsh and cruel, and Matthew got up quickly, brushing himself up to apologise before the strangers could manage to lay eyes on each other. It became apparent when they did that they were not in fact strangers at all. And there were two of them, and one of Matthew.

"Sorry," he mumbled, distractedly, stepping aside to pass them to be on his way.

One of the boys stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

Matthew tried to move again, only to be stopped once more.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Home," Matthew said defiantly.

"Where's your mate?" One of them taunted, shoving his shoulder so hard, Matthew paced back a little.

He clenched his fist at his side. The bullying hadn't seemed so bad when he wasn't alone, but at the mention of Patrick's absence he felt his anger seize his insides in a way he had become somewhat accustomed to since that horrible day his mother had told him.

* * *

 _Isobel crouched in front of him, her face stern and eyes both soft with love and hard with resolve at_

 _the same time. Matthew stayed still, staring at his mother while his stomach flipped and shrank and_

 _became a bottomless chasm. He didn't register the movement of the cushions next to him as his_

 _father sat down, nor did he feel the hand laid over his. He didn't hear whatever mumbling Reggie_

 _said in his gentle voice._

 _"Matthew," his mother started, "I'm sure you've read in the paper about the Titanic."_

 _There was a pause, a great void of quiet that throbbed in his ears and stung in his eyes. He knew what was_

 _coming, but that didn't mean he had to accept it._

 _"Patrick said in his letter he was crossing in May," Matthew said, his tone even and emotionless._

 _Sure but unsure. Harsh and cold yet showing the tumult of emotion that threatened to burst_

 _through him. He was right, he knew he was. Accept he wasn't. Not really._

 _"I'm so terribly sorry. I'm afraid that Patrick was on the list of passengers. He was not amongst those_

 _on board the lifeboats. He wasn't picked up." Isobel told him._

 _"Matthew I'm so, so sorry."_

 _There were tears in his mother's eyes. But there weren't tears in his._

 _Matthew did not move. His jaw tightened but his gaze did not waver from where it had been fixed_

 _minutes ago. He sat stock still for a moment. It did not feel like shock. It did not take any time for the_

 _news to sink in, it did so immediately, burning a lump to rise in his throat. He stood up rather_

 _suddenly, leaving Isobel's hand to slip from his knee._

 _He nodded slowly, dumbly, and placed his other hand over his father's, patting it._

 _"I'm going to go for a walk," he announced, striding quickly passed his aggrieved and bewildered_

 _parents, out the door._

 _"Someone should go with you..." Isobel went to the door and implored her son._

 _Matthew did not turn, instead saying, rather coldly, "I'm going alone."_

 _"Dear, let him go." Reggie interjected. "Let him be alone for a moment."_

* * *

He hardly knew what he'd done. One moment, he'd been still, and stoic, forcing his rage to contain within him. The next moment, his knuckles ached, bruised purple by the force of its collision with the larger boy's nose. The spark of fury flickered dangerously in his swimming eyes.

Mary rounded the corner just in time to see it. She stepped back, clapping a hand over her mouth to prevent her unwitting gasp from escaping her lips.

The boy threw all his power and weight into the fist that collided with Matthew's face. It hit his jaw with such force that he stumbled backwards, pain erupted from him on point of impact. The other one grasped him nastily with a hand either side of his head, bringing his knee cap to smash into Matthew's nose. There was a blunt crack before his head was released and he stumbled forwards. Matthew tackled one of them head on around the waist, forcing him onto the stone ground like he would have when playing rugby. The standing boy couldn't manage to push him off and Matthew sat astride his crumpled figure, one knee either side of his shoulders, and he sunk his fist into the boy's face. He did it again, and again, before the other one tugged Matthew off and thrust him hard, face first, against the stone wall. Matthew put up a good fight, especially given that there were two of them and one of him. He pushed one's head away and brought it slamming into the wall by his side. By this time, the other had gathered himself and he and his mate forced Matthew to the ground, kicking him where he lay under their feet on his front.

The larger boy continued to pummel him, knocking him senseless with the merciless toe of his boot but as Mary stepped around into view, finally gearing up the courage to stop them before they killed him, the other boy caught a glimpse of another person in the near vicinity and ran cowardly away.

Matthew managed to get up and throw the other one off him then, standing up carefully, he eyed the other boy, and pushed his back against the wall, crushing his throat with his forearm. Matthew seethed, and it was fair to say that nobody had ever seen him quite so terrifying- his eyes filled with the heated desire to kill.

"He's not worth it Matthew!" Mary yelled, frightened by the unnatural loathing and revulsion on Matthew's face. He didn't relent, keeping his arm pushed up harshly against the boy's throat, before there was an easing up in his eyes, and he bowed his head, weakening and giving up. His arm loosened and he looked away, seeing Mary stood behind him with a pleading gloss over her dark eyes.

Taking his opportunity, the boy kicked Matthew hard in the gut. In his weakened state, Matthew fell hard on all fours.

Mary looked at Matthew's sad eyes as he slowly lifted his head to look at her. She saw his cracked nose, his burst lip, the blood he spat out that had pooled in his mouth and dribbled clumsily down his chin, before he forced his trembling and bruised limbs to take his weight and compel himself to stand.

They boy shifted, readying himself to knock Matthew down again but, this time, Mary stepped in.

"Your father is Mr Crower," she told him sternly. "You live on the farm behind the river path."

The boy was silent.

"Do you know who I am?" Mary asked, cocking her head to the side, her confidence and calm resolve unparalleled to any this boy had seen before. She was beautiful and radiant, even in black, her posture held an importance, as did her strong voice and expensive attire.

"I know you're in my way, miss." He said, seething slightly but not daring to lay a finger on her.

"I would like to point out that your living is in Lord Grantham's gift, your school is funded by Lord Grantham's charities and your farm and home are on Lord Grantham's land. I hope it is not vulgar of me to suggest that you find some way to overcome your violence," Mary said coolly. She turned away and strode off, head held high, before remembering something and spinning back to catch the boy's eye.

"And I am not 'miss'" she added. "I am Lady Mary Crawley."

Her eyes glinted with a sly pleasure at the shocked and frightened look that overtook and contorted the boy's beaten features as she turned once more, taking Matthew's arm and walking away.

He limped, grimacing as they neared a bench in the open square and pulling his arm away to sit down. He couldn't bear this. The proximity in which they walked seemed ill-at-ease with the nature of their relationship. She hated him, tolerated him at best, and he couldn't stir himself to act as though her obvious loathing of him didn't hurt- when he was already hurting more than he had thought possible.

"Matthew are y…"

"Mary, please go back to the house," he shook his head, his tone uncharacteristically callous.

She frowned, irritant mingling with the myriad of feelings she already felt flooding through her stomach. She was about to object, and then her pride got the better of her.

"Fine."

And with that, she walked away.

* * *

They had been getting along strangely peacefully since he'd returned to Easter, perhaps some benevolent intervention had forged a sense of serenity between them in preparation for the tragedy that would befall, but she had actually been somewhat anticipating his return from school the past holiday.

* * *

 _It had been warm for an Easter in England. The grass shone a luxurious green in the glare of the afternoon sun and Mary sat despondently on the window seat, the book on her lap going unread in preference of gazing out onto the vast grounds._

 _"Lady Mary, if you insist on day dreaming rather than paying attention to your studies I shall have to detain you for an extra hour and you will miss tea." Fräulein Kelder insisted haughtily._

 _"But I can't miss tea!" Mary exclaimed without thinking._

 _"I assure you, you can and you will if you do not pay attention," came the disdainful reply._

 _Mary sighed, turning her attention back to the book after a short period of shooting an appropriately irritated glare at her maddening governess._

 _It was difficult, dull and outlandishly tiresome- she ended up reading over the same sentence multiple times without noticing; she supposed boys did not read such uninteresting works at their schools._

 _"I didn't know you thought so highly of Matthew," Edith smirked over the top of her own book at her sister's slip of the tongue, evidently enjoying the chance to tease Mary after she had so cruelly ratted her out to Fräulein only minutes earlier._

 _Mary frowned. It would be untrue to admit that Matthew's return for the holidays had not been on her mind at her exclamation, but that Edith had picked up on it irked her._

 _"If you must know, I am merely looking forward to seeing Sybil when nanny brings her in." Mary replied coolly._

 _Sybil at twenty months old was a joy to be around, she ran about quite happily and picked things up, examining them and running to give them to some poor unsuspecting person who most likely didn't want it- usually granny, which gave them all a good laugh._

 _Even so, Edith didn't quite believe her, and her suspicions weren't misplaced at all in this particular instance._

 _"Please be quiet, Lady Edith," Fräulein Kelder deadpanned, her monotone voice being enough to send both of her wards to sleep._

 _Mary shot her sister a nasty, smug look._

 _"And you too, Lady Mary."_

 _Her smirk was wiped clean off her face._

 _It was merely a half hour later that they were dismissed to the library to tea, Robert and Cora were already settled in their respective seats, an excited Sybil was brought down by a thoroughly worn out nanny and Mary and Edith took their seats across from their parents, both drawing smiles at the sight of their delighted younger sister._

 _Sybil stumbled over to her sisters, brandishing a crushed bunch of purple flowers in her pudgy fist and giving half of the stems to either sister._

 _"Gift!" She announced, not noticing the bemused look on their respective faces. "Reggie walked me in the garden."_

 _"That's lovely darling," Edith beamed._

 _"Yes, thank you very much," Mary agreed._

 _"Reggie coming," Sybil told them._

 _"Yes," Edith agreed. "Do you know who he's coming with?"_

 _"Isobel!" Sybil shouted happily._

 _"And?" Edith nudged._

 _Sybil looked thoughtful for a second, frowning in concentration before turning at the sound of Carson announcing the guests._

 _"Maffew!" Sybil cried, racing her chubby little legs over to where Matthew stood smiling in the open doorway. He crouched when she neared him, roaring as he picked her up as if to pretend she had gotten heavy since he last saw her and swinging her up high above his head, standing up straight again as she giggled madly and grinned toothily at him. She threw her pudgy arms around his neck, playing mindlessly with his tie as he bounced her, walking over to where the others sat with their tea._

 _"How's my best girl?" he asked her affectionately._

 _"I good," she replied, resting her cheek on his shoulder._

 _Matthew sat down on the sofa next to Cora, placing Sybil on his lap and jogging her on his knee and Mary raised an eyebrow in mild shock and yet a small amount of admiration regarding Matthew's newfound confidence. He seemed different, as if, in Patrick's absence, his lessons had finally rubbed off on Matthew- giving him an assertive boldness he had never possessed or owned so well before. He wasn't cocky, or caddish as so many other boys his age were, and he wasn't quite as forwardly charming as Patrick but he was certainly growing less shy, less bashful, and it suited him well._

 _What really surprised her, was the way he'd changed so much in the last few months; she'd seen him at Christmas, of course, but he hadn't seemed so estranged then. She didn't know what she was expecting, a part of her still envisioned the seven-year-old she had once knew coming up to the big house to play hide and seek with her equally aged self. What she had not expected, however ludicrous it was to think otherwise, was a grown and sophisticated young man with perfect etiquette, impeccable manners, and engaging conversation. He was every bit the young man that everyone wanted in their son._

 _But there was something else. His voice had dropped in pitch a couple of years ago, she'd noticed that at the time, but there was a difference to him that had struck her upon his entrance. He'd grown older in appearance, as was to be expected, but it wasn't just that; she glanced gently into the cadence of his eyes, finding that their blue was the same and yet infinitely more striking. His blonde hair, still tousled and messy, suited him well. His stature was slimmer and more defined, his arms and chest more built beneath his shirt and jacket. His tender countenance and darker eyebrows seemed similar but changed. He was handsome, and very much so._

 _"How are you, Duck?" Cora asked, "I'm sure the last few months have been strange without Patrick."_

 _Matthew nodded. "They have, of course they have. And much quieter as well," he laughed. "But he keeps me informed in his letters. They plan to cross to New York in May. It took him a while to get used to the idea, but I think he's quite excited."_

 _"Well, that is good. I do worry about him, so far from home." Isobel mused._

 _"So do I, I must admit," Robert put in, taking his tea from the footman._

 _"I too!" Sybil squealed, not looking like she had a care in the world as she ran over to a chair, grabbed her rabbit toy and brought it back to Matthew, passing it eagerly to him and smiling widely as Matthew made it talk to her._

 _She giggled, taking the toy from him and running to get something else to give him._

 _Cora stopped her gently, not wanting her to repeat the time she knocked over a vase in her haste._

 _Mary, watching Sybil's eagerness with fondness, held her arms out for her. "Darling, come here."_

 _Sybil happily bounced over to her sisters, using Mary's help to climb up onto the sofa and place herself in her eldest sister's lap. She reached out for Edith, playing distractedly with her fingers._

 _"You stole my best girl," Matthew accused, his eyes narrowing in jest at Mary sat on the opposite sofa._

 _"Perhaps she just prefers me," Mary shrugged, a light in her eyes that hinted toward her joke. "Who do you prefer Sybil darling? Me or Matthew?"_

 _Matthew rolled his eyes, certain that the sisters had planned this between them, but, to his surprise, Sybil just shook her head, sliding a hand across her mouth then pressing her index finger to her lips in a shushing mime._

 _The rest of them all burst out into peels of laughter._

 _"You cheeky young rascal!" Robert exclaimed, snatching his youngest daughter from his eldest daughter's lap, throwing her up in the air and catching her as she screamed in delight._

 _Matthew caught Mary's eye, smiling in amusement._

 _"How are you?" He inquired, sipping his tea._

 _"Good, thank you," Mary nodded, "frightfully bored though. Fräulein Kelder is terribly dull, and I'm afraid she monopolises our time far more than she did when Patrick was here."_

 _"He can charm anything," Matthew smiled, "Even the likes of Fräulein Kelder."_

Mary had laughed at that. And it was the last time she had laughed. It was the last time Matthew had smiled, the last time Edith had played with a giggling Sybil, the last time tea in the library had been something more bearable than a torrid silence. The last time they'd thought Patrick and James were booked to leave in May. It was the last time they had expected Patrick to be returning home someday.

* * *

"Terribly sorry, Sir, but there is a visitor for you," Molesly announced to Reggie and Isobel.

"A visitor? We aren't expecting anyone tonight," Isobel frowned at her husband, the previous serene and gentle quiet of the drawing room now disturbed.

"Who is it, Molesly?" Reggie asked.

"It's Lord Grantham, Sir. He apologizes for coming so late and without warning, but he said it's urgent," Molesly announced.

Isobel's eyes narrowed in curiosity.

"Well, by all means show him in," Isobel said, glancing inquisitively at Reggie who simply shrugged in a non-committal answer.

Molesly bowed his head and opened the door for Robert to enter.

Reggie got up, shaking his friend's hand and inviting him to sit once he'd kissed Isobel's cheek in greeting.

"I truly am sorry to have come at such an inconvenient time," he told them.

"Nonsense," Reggie waved his hand in dismissal, "you're welcome any time, you know that."

"If this isn't an emergency, then what is so urgent, Robert?" Isobel asked politely.

"I won't take up much of your time, I'm sure you've both had busy days working. And I appreciate you allowing me in at this hour. I could have waited until you all come up to dinner tomorrow, but it's rather important news and I felt you should know before I tell the rest of the family."

"Very well." Reggie nodded. "Please, go ahead, would you like a drink?"

"Oh, no thank you. I won't be long. It's quite a delicate matter, given recent events."

"Yes?" Isobel asked, perplexed.

"Well," Robert continued, "I'm sure you are aware that James and dear Patrick were the next in line to take up my title upon my passing, and now given..." He gulped, pressing his sudden emotion below the surface, "the recent tragedy, my mother had pressured me to find the new heir."

Both Isobel and Reggie nodded solemnly.

"And you're having difficulty finding them? Is that what you require my assistance for?" Reggie queried, suddenly becoming aware of where he thought his friend was going.

Isobel did not jump to such conclusions quite yet.

"No, no," Robert shook his head. "No, Murray took care of the whole affair and came up with two names, of which we hadn't even been aware were even relatives."

"Oh," Reggie uttered, surprised. "But, I'm afraid, Robert, I still don't quite understand. What does this have to do with us?"

Isobel had a strange inkling that something life-changing was about to be revealed.

"It's Matthew." Robert said finally.

A silent pall passed over the room, in which Reggie attempted desperately to process this information. Matthew- his son, Matthew- was one-day to be the Earl of Grantham.

"Well," Robert continued, "Of course, it's really you- Reggie, but with us being the same age, it seems more appropriate for Matthew to be hailed at heir."

"I must say I agree with that," Isobel said.

Reggie had to say he thought the same. "I suppose he'll have to be told soon," he mused sadly, knowing it would be such a shock, such a change and such a reminder to his son over what he had lost.

"There's no getting out of it, I'm afraid." Robert said, his aggrieved expression showing his thoughts to be on similar lines to Reggie's. "He must be told as soon as possible so he can be trained up to the task as fully as possible. I know it's horrible, but the estate demands it."

"He'll understand that," Isobel said. "He'll be hurt, of course. But I believe he'll understand."

Only Matthew didn't understand.

They told him during dinner at the big house the night before he left for school, and though Mary and Edith had both been also terribly shocked and downright astounded by the news- as ground breaking as it was- where Mary had been angered that she'd been passed over her inheritance for the boy her father preferred, she had been significantly released of her irritant at Matthew's appalled reaction.

He'd been disbelieving at first, under the impression that the whole thing was some sick and heart-wrenching joke, and only realising the truth in the matter after surveying the painfully momentous expressions of his parents.

He'd shouted then. Angered, hurt, distressed and resenting at the very notion of being the one to replace Patrick. He didn't want this. He'd never envisioned this. He'd never ever even wished to own an estate or have a title or any of those things. They didn't matter to him. Not like Patrick did.

There had been a moment, before he stormed out, when Mary had been sure she'd seen tears in his eyes. Despite her indignant view if him and her vexation at his being the new heir, she couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

* * *

The next night, back in his dorm room at Eton and ashamedly glad at being away from the scrutiny of his parents and the family at the big house, Matthew was still distressed at the great matter. Although regretting his outburst at dinner, as he hadn't seen any of them again before he left on the train the next morning and wouldn't see them until he returned for the summer holidays, he still wallowed in the aching sensation the thought of taking Patrick's place brought him.

He opened his trunk to pull out his pyjamas, the darkened room lit by only his bedside lamp which served as proof that the other boys had already settled for the night, and found an unfamiliar rectangular object wrapped neatly in brown paper and string sitting at the very top of his things.

He picked it curiously out of the trunk, smoothing his palms slowly over the paper in perplexed intrigue. His fingers started to shake as he pulled the string, collecting it up and curling it into a ball that he placed gently in his bedside drawer. He removed the paper at an even slower pace, trembling at he slid the object out and folded the paper to stow with the string.

Bringing the gift into the light, he gasped in awe at the title on the cover in shimmering gold embroidered lettering.

 _Perseus and Andromeda._

He opened the cover to check for an inscription, but found there was none. Only the words: _Matthew Reginald Crawley_ were written in beautifully curled expensive ink.

* * *

 _a/n: I am so sorry this took me so long to write and I'm sorry that I did what I did in respect of Patrick because I really had come to love his character in a strange way. Alas, Matthew needed to be the heir and there was only one way that was possible._


	10. Chapter 10

1913

Her harsh breaths blew out in visible puffs, mingling with the bitter night air as she ran. Night had fallen long ago and, despite the early hour of the morning it must have been now- one or two at least- Mary threw caution to the wind as she ran at full pelt through the woods. They say the darkest hour is before the dawn- and yet if that were true it can't have been long to go by now. It was pitch black, and Mary could barely see a thing, having neglected to bring a candle in her haste. The biting cold chilled her limbs into clumsy numbness as she stumbled in the thick snow, her thin nightdress doing nothing against the frosty air and blowing winds. Cold seeped through her slippers and spread painfully through her feet as if they were bare on the ice but she kept going. Sprinting in her desperation.

Mary's lips were blue by the time she reached the door, tinged with a violet hue as her teeth chattered like a drill and her body quaked, wracked by shivers. The frigid wind gripped her and whipped her pale skin as she banged her fists against the wood and yelled.

"Reggie! Isobel! Please! Help!" Her plea embodied her distress. As if her position couldn't get any more unladylike, she worked herself up into a frenzy, screaming and shouting for help, pounding the door with every ounce of energy she could muster.

After a minute, maybe two, that felt like hours, the door opened and the tiniest wave of relief hit Mary. But, to her surprise, it wasn't Reggie or Isobel or even one of the servants that opened the door. It was Matthew; stood in blue silk pyjamas with his blonde hair messed and sticking up at all angles, his bright eyes tired and drowsy yet wide with anticipation and fear.

He opened his mouth to speak but, as words evaded him, they did not evade her.

"Matthew, please, get Isobel and Reggie. Sybil's not well." She pleaded with him, eyes swimming with terror and appearance rather wild.

"They aren't in." Matthew stammered, pulling Mary inside the house with an arm around her shoulders. "They went to London for the count with your parents."

His words sent her stomach plummeting and she pressed a hand over her eyes, her desperation increasing tenfold.

"Is nanny not with you?" He asked.

"She doesn't know what to do..." She broke off.

The next time she spoke, her voice had cracked and broken into hysteria.

"I need a doctor!" Mary wailed, short of breath. "It'll take hours to fetch anyone else! I'll have to journey to Ripon and Mama and Papa have the car!" Her chest shuddered and she struggled to keep a grip on herself, barely noticing Matthew hastily toeing on a pair of shoes and throwing on a coat.

"She can scarcely breathe, Matthew, I don't know what to do!"

Matthew took in Mary's shaking visage and rested a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm going to do the best I can. When we get to the house, ask one of the footmen to employ the governess cart to take them to Ripon to fetch doctor Clarkson. It won't be any less than four hours before he can get here but in the meantime, I think I know what to do- it sounds to me like it's croup."

He grabbed one of his coats off the stand and wrapped it around Mary's shoulders. "Now put this on before you catch your death."

"Matthew, you are NOT a doctor," she challenged, panting as she watched him grab his keys off the table.

"Both of my parents are, and I've seen this illness before." He told her, ushering her outside as he locked up. "I can do my best, or you can wait for the doctor- god knows how long it will take him in this blizzard, it's the worst storm we've had in years!"

She didn't challenge him again, putting all her energy instead into keeping up with his fast pace as they both ran back to the big house.

When they got there, Mary did as instructed (for once) and sent the footman out for doctor Clarkson at once before joining Matthew and her sisters in the drawing room where Matthew held Sybil on his lap next to an open window, head hanging out.

"What on earth are you doing?" Edith asked him, her voice desperate.

"The cold air might help her breathe," Matthew explained as Sybil took horrible, rattling shallow breaths. She was horribly pale and running a high fever, sweating and drowsy as she tried to fight unconsciousness.

The young girl was quite clearly terrified, and Mary watched as Matthew rocked her gently in his arms, reassuring her with murmured words and soft lullabies. It softened her heart to see him so tender toward her, as it always seemed to when she saw how he was around Sybil – caring, loving, brotherly. She hated the guilt that gripped her when she realised it.

"Edith, fetch a cloth and wring it in cool water," Matthew commanded, "Mary, pass me the bottle of Ipecac in my coat pocket. She's struggling to breathe."

"Ipecac?" Mary questioned, frantically. "Won't that make her sick?"

"She's got a build-up of mucus in her throat, vomiting may help her clear it so she can breathe normally, it should also reduce the swelling in her epiglottis." He said, holding Sybil upright in his arms against his hip like how one might hold a baby. "On the second thoughts, ignore that, I'm taking her to the kitchen, it'll be easier to get things done in there."

After an hour of Matthew trying and trying to reduce the swelling and comfort the cries out of Sybil, as well as keep her fever under check and make sure she drank plenty of fluids, Sybil started to spit out the water that Mary was trying to coax into her and fall even more limp in Edith's arms.

Matthew, who was over by the sink, came rushing over and placed a hand on her forehead.

"Her temperature is getting higher." He noted, voice cracking.

Mary and Edith watched in horror as Matthew tried to get Sybil to sit on a chair, holding her head in both hands so it didn't loll back in her weakened state.

"Come on Sybil!" He begged. "Come on, breathe!"

It was terrifying, the breaths she had taken before had been weak, rattling and shallow but nonetheless audible. There. Now she was silent, convulsing in her difficulty to obey the commands that thundered in her ringing ears. She tried, she tried as hard as she could but it hurt. She couldn't do it. She shook, writhing and twitching as her sisters looked on in absolute horror, her, to all intents and purposes at least, brother shaken to the core with a fear and a uselessness. It was up to Sybil now. The silence emanated, breaking only with Edith's sob.

"She's not breathing."

Mary's lungs ceased up as the wind was knocked from her in a single moment. She couldn't breathe. That made two of them. She struggled to contain her panic, looking despairingly at Edith and gasping "not now," to herself as she shuddered in fright. In Edith's face, she saw reflected her own horror, and she managed to pull herself together just enough to follow Matthew's shouted orders.

"Lie her on her front on the table and hold her legs."

The two girls did so, hanging Sybil so the front half of her body hung down. Matthew knelt on the floor, holding a cloth to Sybil's mouth, patting her back firmly to try and get her to cough.

"Come on Sybil, cough." He pleaded. "Cough, please god cough!"

There was a terrible ghastly silence. But Sybil was strong.

"Cough!"

There was a terrible ghastly noise. And Sybil coughed up the obstruction in her throat, as Matthew's hand rubbed her back in helpful circles.

Once it was all out, Matthew carefully lifted her up and Edith took the little girl into her arms as Mary looked on, unable to do anything due to the shaking of her limbs.

Sybil's breathing rate returned slowly back to normal, her fever remained however, as Matthew managed to get more fluids down her.

"The worst is over," he declared after a few minutes. "Most cases relieve after a day or two and I believe she'll make a full recovery."

Mary was relieved, she really was, but for some reason it did nothing to slow her own heart rate.

"You two should go to bed, I'll stay with Sybil for a while. Just until she gets to sleep." Matthew carried Sybil upstairs, whispering to her how brave she'd been and how proud he was of her as he went.

Edith followed and collapsed wearily on her own bed, a rest well earnt, while Mary escaped to the library to catch her breath.

When Matthew had put Sybil to bed and tucked her in, he stayed with her for a short while, confirming his belief that the worst of it was over and she would indeed make a full recovery. He came down to the library after some time to find Mary stood, leaning on the desk and staring into space. As he approached her, moving nearer and nearer with each quiet step, he realised that she was shaking.

He laid a hand on her shoulder and smoothed over the jacket of his that she was still wearing.

"Mary, you're shaking, you should sit down." He guided her to the sofa, hoping that the heat from the fire would warm her.

They rested in the quiet, the flickering warmth licking over them and giving a little help to tie the ends of her frazzled nerves. She didn't know why this was affecting her so. Sybil would be alright, she knew that now, so why did she still feel so frightened? So on edge. So terrified.

"Do you need a hug?"

She supposed she must have looked more forlorn than she thought. She was all wobbly knees and stinging eyes, afraid that the lump in her throat was palpable. She felt rather ridiculous, in such a state even after Matthew had assured them Sybil would be alright and her other sister had gone to bed with ease of mind.

"You look like you need a hug," he added, sitting down next to her on the library sofa.

She probably did look like she needed a hug. She was picking clumsily at the seam of the coat she was wearing and her usually perfectly brushed dark hair was mussed and wild. While Edith had gone to sleep, and Matthew was doing his best to ensure Sybil's safety, she was on her own in the library shaking, despite the warmth of the fire and the comfort of the large coat around her shoulders.

Matthew looked at her, an innocent blue-eyed yet forlorn smile on his face, even if it was a little more sympathetic than she would have liked. She may have been anxious, but the last thing she wanted was him feeling sorry for her- she couldn't stand it. She didn't like sympathy at the best of times, but if there was anyone she deserved understanding from less than Matthew- well, that would be impossible.

He'd never been anything but kind to her, and yet she always did nothing. She always made fun of him. Threw her careless jibes at him like it meant nothing, when that was really the opposite of how it felt. She teased him mercilessly, each time taking it a little further until it became too far. He gave as good as he got in that respect, he matched her and fought her, taking her quips and throwing back ones of his own to challenge her, but he was more reserved in his scruples. He never took it too far. Never started it unnecessarily. Never said anything if he could see that perhaps she wasn't having a good day, or if she'd been upset by something- most of the time when Edith had triumphed over her and she'd been stuck in a melancholy huff. But despite his sound and kind judgement, Mary turned a blind eye every time. Every time Larry insulted him at dinners, every time the village boys had tripped him or sent him crumbling to the ground at the bottom of the steps in the market Mary just stood by and did nothing. Eros, Matthew's wandering cat, would come up to her sometimes on her walks around the small town, and she'd stroke him and feed him, but other than their quick glances in the grounds and their infrequent conversations at dinner or in the drawing room afterward, that was really the only connection she had with him. Patrick's death had meant his visits to the house itself had thinned in the frequency. He came to see her Papa about books or the estate, or to talk to her Mama like he so often did. He shared a bond with her parents, one she couldn't understand, or didn't have the capacity to describe other that in the way that he was like a son to them and perhaps she didn't resent that as much now as she had done. He got on with Edith, Sybil adored him- going as far as to name him 'Bubba' to which he returned her affections of a sibling-like love. It was only Mary with whom he had a relationship that was at odds to all that surrounded it. She didn't know what she wanted anymore, and all the talks in the world with her beloved Carson could not have sorted her mangled feelings.

It wasn't that she wanted to have any kind of connection with him- absolutely not, she was already teased mercilessly by her friends because of the rumour that he was sweet on her - but she didn't believe he deserved all the bullying.

He irked her, the way he waggled his eyebrows at her across the dinner table and his unfailing ability to provide intelligent and interesting conversation to the point where he became the focus of all the adults' attentions. He was always there when she did something embarrassing. And he was middle class. That's what she kept telling herself, only now she knew she'd been lying to herself, afraid to acknowledge her own feelings; perhaps it was because of his friendship with Patrick, perhaps it was something else, but Matthew Crawley had become, despite the bullying, one of the most popular boys at his school. He was the star player in the first eleven cricket team. He had girls throwing themselves at him from every which way at house parties and dances. He had grown into himself between third and fourth year. He'd turned from a sweet endearing boy, to a rather attractive, handsome young man. He was the heir to her father's estate. Which only irked her all the more.

Because she liked him. And he was good to her.

She'd been so afraid to admit it, the prospect of liking someone that much terrifying her, that she'd buried it deeper and deeper and eventually come to lie to herself.

In spite of the rumour that he liked her that she'd been told at Eleanor's ball, following the dance they'd all observed with giggling interest at the house party over two years ago now. It seemed much longer. So much had changed. Patrick, dear Patrick being chief among them. She missed him dearly, as they all must, and was sure that the feeling would never die as long as she lived. His absence had sparked something in Matthew, however. Where it had rendered him speechless and unreachable for months after the news, it had somehow changed him. Patrick had changed him. Had taught him his confidence, brought out his ability to charm. Matthew was the last person to try and fill Patrick's shoes- it couldn't be done, not ever, and they all knew that- but he had a part of Patrick in him, as they all did, and it had shown after his death. The mark he'd left behind, the values he'd taught his friend were not disregarded and his newfound confidence suited him well.

But she was still taken aback by his question. Especially after she'd been so unfaithful in his abilities earlier- when she'd ran all the way to Crawley house in a panic and he'd been good enough to come back with her and help. Matthew had noticed how terrified she had looked, stood in the freezing snow storm and dark air in just her thin nightdress, breathless after sprinting from her doorstep to his. And despite the late hour, his inexperience and how rude she'd always been to him, he ran back up to the house with her and proceeded to save Sybil's life.

And for some, unknown, reason she accepted his offer.

It was only after he wrapped his arms around her that she realised how much she had needed that hug. Matthew was warm. His arms were secure and strong and he smelt of a mixture of his cologne, soap, books and something else eminently… _Matthewesque._ It felt completely foreign to be so close to him- indeed to be engaging in any kind of intimacy at all- but she didn't dislike it. She most certainly didn't dislike it at all. Just as she hadn't disliked the kiss. Because, despite feeling strange, it also felt right and comfortable.

She didn't want him to let go. She let herself rest her face in his neck and relax as he tightened his hold around her.

"It's alright," he murmured. "Sybil will be alright. The doctor should be here soon and he can check her over." Mary nodded into him and he continued. "I'll wait up for him, you should get some sleep."

"No, that's alright," she said, decidedly, "I'll wait with you."

She moved back slightly, not out from his arms but leaning away fractionally to gauge his reaction to her comment. He smiled slightly, his eyes tired but paradoxically bright and glinting gently. She could feel his breath warm against her cheek and could almost sense the scene shift as she sunk further into his arms and wrapped hers around him in return.

* * *

When Mary opened her eyes blearily, she found herself lying on her side on the sofa, the coat she had been wearing replaced by Matthew's arms and her back pressed to his chest, his breaths tickling where his nose was nuzzled in the back of her neck. She didn't want to move away so she turned around instead, tucking her head beneath his chin and closing her eyes once more and pressing her cheek to his heart. She stilled after that, her bleary mind intoxicated by his calming scent, and chose to let herself drift back to sleep.

Only to be roused unceremoniously by a second, louder rap from the Doctor at the door a few moments later.

Matthew showed Clarkson into Sybil's room and stayed while he checked over the little girl, claiming that Matthew had indeed saved her life. Mary stood in the doorway with Edith, both still a little nervous as the fear from hours before had not quite faded away. Clarkson agreed to return on call in a few days, once Robert and Cora had returned, so he could provide explanation to them about the illness while Matthew insisted that both Mary and Edith go straight back to bed.

"Matthew, will you stay?" It was more of a plea than a question or even invitation when it came from Mary's lips. She didn't want to be left alone, not quite yet, and his presence was comforting as well as reassuring.

"I'll be downstairs if you need anything." He nodded. "Do you want a glass of water or some tea or something? I'm sure Mrs Patmore won't mind delaying breakfast for a minute or two."

Mary shook her head, then reassessed the situation and nodded, using the balls of her wrist to wipe her eyes.

"A cup of tea would be nice, actually."

He smiled and all too soon he sprang off down the staircase to the kitchens.

Mary went back into her room, putting on a shawl over her nightdress and sitting up against the headboard of her bed, legs tucked under her duvet. Somehow, it didn't seem as warm as Matthew's arms. Nor as comforting.

She ached. Her limbs felt like overstretched elastic bands. She was exhausted and, to be honest, quite shaken. Reminding herself to breathe, she wriggled her toes under the blankets and leant her head back, closing her eyes. The feeling of terror hadn't quite yet left her body and for that reason she felt a bit on end, sparks of anxiety shooting adrenaline from her chest to her fingertips and toes.

Only when Matthew came in and placed a saucer with a steaming cup of tea on the bedside table next to her, she gestured for him to sit down on the bed, and when he wrapped an arm around her she felt a little calmer. She leant against him.

"How're you feeling?" He asked gently. "You seemed quite shaken up earlier."

"I'm alright." She admitted, her voice an exhausted hum. "Tired, I suppose, and cold, but mostly I'm just relieved." She offered him a smile, nudging her nose against his chest. He rubbed her shoulder with his thumb, a tentative and thoughtful movement that relaxed them both.

"You should get some sleep." He said softly. "I don't expect the adults to be back for another few days yet, and that is if the storm doesn't delay their journey, so you can sleep through the entire day if you need to. I'm going to check on Sybil, nanny should have it covered but I want to make sure, and I'll make sure Edith is alright too." He removed the comforting arm from around her shoulders and climbed from her bed. "Carson has said that I might stay in the bachelor's corridor until everyone's back, but as the lady of the house I wanted to seek your permission first. May I?"

"You may," she smiled slightly at his acknowledgement of her position, even though, really, nanny was in charge until Papa and Mama came back, or even Matthew himself might be, as the heir. "But stay in the family wing; there's no need to be quite so far away in the bachelor's corridor."

He smiled back at her. "Thank you."

Then he left. And she wished he hadn't.

She wondered to her window after a few minutes, taking a shawl from her chair and wrapping it around her shoulders. The sheen of snow covering the sloping ground had been refreshed in the time she'd been sleeping; neither her nor Matthew's footprints could be seen and even the tracks from the doctor's motor had been partially covered. She watched as Matthew trekked through the storm, dressed in a thicker coat that was once Patrick's and boots that must have also belonged to her late cousin. He'd gone to collect his things, clothes and toothbrush and the like to prepare him for his stay, but she'd assumed he'd simply have sent the footman after them, rather than going to all the trouble himself.

She turned from the glass and wrapped the fabric more firmly around her, padding quickly away, through the corridor, down the stairs and out the door. The snow under her bare feet felt like knives to her skin and she regretted her actions almost at once, yet she didn't retreat. Giving up wasn't in her nature.

"Matthew!"

He whirled around, bewildered, and hurried towards her in shock, taking in her bare feet and light clothing with mingled horror and amusement.

"Mary, you'll freeze!" he called, nearing her.

She made no indication that she'd even heard him, closing the gap between them as fast as she could, despite the numbing pain in her feet and the shivers that wracked along her spine, and when she reached him, pale and trembling there was a smile on her face as she stepped off the snow, placing her feet on each of his and holding him by the lapels of his pyjamas.

Her lips were blue with cold, but they were warm when they touched his. They were soft and smooth, gentle and determined, meaningful and loving.

He took the openings of his coat and wrapped them around her, encasing them both inside the thick fabric and holding her to him. The whirlwind in his mind ceased almost at once.

He was lost in her. His every thought obliterated as her lips opened and the kiss deepened. She was intoxicating. Lady Mary Crawley had been born to be admired. Desired and loved inexplicably and absolutely- by him more than anyone.

He'd longed for this moment, to hold her against him and feel her impossibly close and yet never close enough. The temptation to continue this moment until forever ended overwhelmed him, the heady thrill of her lips moving against his, her tongue caressing his own, was so exhilarating that it took all his self-restraint to pull away. Even then he couldn't resist pulling her back once more, and just for a while they remained, contented and blissful.

Then he remembered how cold she must be, and pulled away reluctantly. With his forehead pressed to hers, he removed the coat and wrapped it around her.

"I never said thank you," she breathed, "for everything. For saving Sybil. For helping me. For being there." She couldn't articulate how much she owed him. "So, thank you, so very, very much. I'll never be able to thank you enough."

"You can thank me by going back to the house, sitting by the fire and warming yourself. Get some rest. I'll be back with my things soon."

She could feel his breath on her skin and she savoured the feeling immensely and unspeakably grateful for his unfailing compassion and loyalty. They'd reached a truce, and she was glad of it.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: nothing much happens in this one, but then there has just been a lot of drama and there is a lot of drama yet to come so I thought I'd make a brief interlude. I am sorry for how long I've been absent. Things have suddenly gotten very busy in my life, but i promise I am not giving up on any of my stories, updates might just take a while longer. Also the extracts Matthew reads are taken from the story Rapunzel and are not mine._

* * *

The snow was still falling thick and fast by early afternoon the following day and yet, even without the master and mistress of the house under its roof, the general goings on at Downton urged a sense of normality to return in the most mundane of things. Breakfast went along as usual, newspapers were ironed, and beds were made as if things were simply blowing by as they did in the normal day to day. Edith emerged early in the afternoon taking luncheon in replacement for her missed breakfast and then going to read in the library while Matthew perused the interior pages of that day's copy of _The Times_. There was little of interest, despite that so much seemed to have happened of late – an ardent amount of politics followed by much of the mundane home news and a few articles on foreign affairs that, though troubling, were not the forefront of his mind in that moment.

His thoughts had been racing since the early hours of the morning.

He could still feel the ghost of Mary's lips moving against his. Her feet standing on top of his, hands grasping his lapels, body flush up against his with his arms wrapped tightly around her.

Often, he found himself drifting back to the moment quite unconsciously and unintentionally, he'd close his eyes, remembering her sweet scent and the intoxicating headiness of her tongue against his.

"It's so typical of Mary to lounge in bed all day."

Edith's observation was a shock to Matthew and he quickly snapped away from his indulgent day-dream in order to drop the paper down beside him and glance over at her.

"I don't think she slept very well, understandably," he answered vaguely. "I'm sure she'll be up soon. Have you checked in on Sybil yet today?"

"Twice," Edith confirmed. "Blissfully asleep both times. I'm glad she's alright but I must say I envy her being allowed to sleep and play and not much else – even if nanny can be a beast sometimes; I received a note from Fräulein Kelder this morning informing me that even such a storm as this will not excuse Mary and I from our studies." Her voice held a resenting bitterness to it. "She writes that she'll be present bright and early tomorrow morning."

Matthew made sympathetic face of mingled expression and disapproval.

"You couldn't put her off I suppose?" He suggested.

"No, regretfully not," Edith sighed, "Papa and Mama are the only ones with the authority and they've sent a telegram saying they won't be arriving for another couple of days at least. Of course, I couldn't tell them about what happened or else they'd worry and there'd be little point to it."

"Have you told Mary? She ought to know, as I'm afraid I have very little idea how to run a house and she's rather accomplished at it."

Edith seemed put out at this comment, frowning. She didn't pursue it, however.

"No, I'm afraid you'll have to inform her as I doubt either of us would survive a length of time in the same room as each other under these circumstances. It's a good job you're here or Carson and nanny would have to remove our claws from each other's scalps."

Matthew laughed heartily, grinning and pushing himself up from the sofa and going over to tug the bell chord.

Edith wondered vaguely if Matthew thought she had been joking.

"Do you still have the telegram? I'll ask a maid to take up some tea and make sure she gets the message after I see how Sybil's doing."

Edith dug it out from a drawer in the desk and handed it to him.

"Thank you," he nodded. "I trust you are alright? I know the whole business gave Mary a shock, but you are recovered from it this morning?"

Edith smiled at his concern. "I am, thank you. I'm also very grateful for your help and concern. I dread to think what would have happened without you. Nanny was quite useless."

"I was very glad to be of help," he replied, nonchalantly.

* * *

" _The man in his terror consented to everything, and when the woman was brought to bed, the enchantress appeared at once, gave the child the name of Rapunzel, and took it away with her."_

Sybil gasped from her seat on Matthew's lap, burying her still pale cheek further against his shirt. Matthew glanced away from delicate pages of the ancient book over to Sybil's dark head slightly sleep-dishevelled hair where it lay soundly against him. He smiled reminiscently at her reactions to the story, reminding him with a fond pang of Isabella at such a tender age. She would have been eight years of age that summer just gone. He held the book of Grimm's fairy tales before them both so she could see the delicate illustrations while he read aloud.

He placed a gentle kiss to her temple before continuing.

 _"Rapunzel grew into the most beautiful child under the sun…"_

Sybil looked up at him and Matthew paused as she opened her mouth to speak.

"That's not true," she said, seemingly surprised and somewhat outraged at his last sentence.

"Oh no?" Matthew queried, intrigued and further bemused as to what the child could mean.

Sybil shook her head forcefully – decidedly.

" _Mary_ is the most beautiful girl in the world." She told him seriously, turning on his lap to gaze up at him slightly for the briefest of moments before he replied.

"You know what, Sybil?" Matthew murmured. "I do believe you're right about that."

The elegant figure of a girl doused in a simple blue dress arriving in the doorway of the nursery had gone unnoticed by both Matthew and the young girl cuddled in his arms.

Mary leant gracefully against the doorframe, the only nearby light being the lamp by Sybil's bed and the afternoon sun peeking through the closed curtains, afforded her the chance to go undetected in her place. Secretly, she liked to hear him read. Matthew's voice was eloquent and smooth, low and gentle toned. Soothing. That was, until Sybil demanded he do the voices of the different characters and then he'd twist into something differently pitched and unabashedly comical. She laughed softly and quietly from the corridor, barely bearing more than a breath in volume. She leaned her head against the wall, smiling serenely as he had read on.

She'd blushed at Sybil's sweet declaration, love for her darling little sister increasing in the face of her plain innocence and yet she'd felt a flutter of intrinsic curiosity to hear how Matthew would engage a response. She'd thought perhaps he might simply laugh in the outrageously handsome and endearing way he did and then continue reading. He might've ignored the statement altogether. Perhaps, and most likely she thought, he'd playfully disagree, shake his head and tell Sybil that she was the most beautiful girl in the world. She was, in his own words after all, his 'best girl' and Mary had been almost sure that he'd be that was inclined to reply.

Only he hadn't.

Mary swallowed in shock. She suddenly felt quite unable to breathe, completely unsure what the connotations of his words were.

And yet, for the first time, she wandered if the rumour Charlotte had told her at Eleanor's ball was true. She wandered if he liked her. He certainly cared about her, he'd made that much clear over the last year or so- he'd protected her, helped her, been there for her, supported her and provoked conversation with her that concerned her own interests, unlike so many of the other boys she'd danced with- but she wandered if that had grown to something more.

That was twice he'd told her she was beautiful. And she wandered, if he didn't like her, why he had kissed her back so fervently, or even why he had kissed her at all.

Unconsciously, her fingertips pressed gently to her lips and laid there for a minute or two while she pondered the possibility of his feelings.

When he began to read again, his eloquent voice flowing words from the page so they echoed around the room in a gentle hum, she became aware of her movement and slowly amended it, letting her hand fall back to her side.

 _"When she was twelve years old, the enchantress shut her into a tower, which lay in a forest…"_

Another few minutes and Sybil was once again fast asleep, curled up in a tight ball in Matthew's lap. He closed the book slowly, placing it on the adjacent table and settled to stroke a hand carefully over her hair, bobbed and short unlike her two elder sisters.

He slipped her from his lap and shifted her properly into his arms, holding her sleeping body against his hip, using his one free hand to open the covers and lay her onto the mattress.

"Get well soon, monkey."

He pulled her sheets over her and tucked the little grey rabbit toy that had fallen to the floor under her limp arm.

And then he was gone, the lamp was switched off and the nursery door closed behind him.

He jumped, startled and almost cried out in shock when he was met in the hall by Mary, standing, radiant as ever despite her lack of sleep, just outside the threshold.

"Dear god!" He hissed, "Mary you startled me!"

She laughed at his disarray, chuckling gently behind her palm.

"Good," she announced playfully, without really knowing why.

She caught glimpse of a smirk from him.

"Did you sleep well?" He asked, not knowing what else to say other than the usual pleasantries.

"Yes, I think so," she breathed casually.

She had not, in fact, slept well at all. For her mind had been thoroughly plagued with every thought she seemed possible of possessing. The feel of him so very close to her had been commonplace amongst her dreams when she eventually succumbed to slumber. Their arms had been entwined like they had been that last night on the library sofa, locked in an embrace that neither of them ever wished to lose. She'd felt his lips too. Soft and tender and ever so beautifully moulded against her mouth as they caressed her skin. Then there had been other imaginings—ones she felt it wrong to mention or even allow her thoughts to drift to once again despite how much she longed to do exactly that. More than once she'd woken up expecting him to be next to her. More than once she'd pondered if she could venture to his bedroom and seek his company in the pretence of – well – anything. He had filled her every thought, her every inch of dream and yet she couldn't shake him even when awake.

"How about you? Did you sleep well?" she asked.

Matthew wondered how she could remain so composed, so regal and calm, when he felt like a nervous muddle.

"Yes, thank you. It was nice to be back in my old bedroom again," he mused. "I hadn't realised quite how much I had missed it."

She smiled in remembrance of the raggedy little boy with a toy sword and paper pirate hat, running along in the grass with an excitable Pharaoh at his heels.

"You used to run around the corridors with that toy plane of yours," she voiced, her tone gentle goading.

"You used to tease me mercilessly about every move I made and every word that left my lips," he replied, a soft smirk appearing on his fine countenance. "You still do."

She admired him shamelessly, one hand fiddling with her necklace.

"If I remember correctly, you give as good as you get. I've never known you to take a jibe lying down."

"I was never the one to start it though, you must recall that," he countered.

In the still and otherwise silent corridor, neither of them noticed how close they had become. Their low tones and coquettish whispers were drawing their bodies ever closer to those of each other.

He could smell her intoxicating perfume.

She could hear his heart beating rhythmically in his chest.

"Well, I like a good argument."

He grinned, eyes glinting.

"If you like a good argument, we should see more of each other."

His lips were mere breaths away from hers. Mary closed her eyes as her hands lifted to his neck. Their noses touched. Her fingers glided smoothly through his hair. His hand came to rest lightly over her waist, his other just above her shoulder blade, twirling his fingers in her long, sweet-smelling hair.

Their lips met, eyes closed in rapture.

It was glorious. The feeling of her so close, so impossibly, improperly, close and still not close enough.

She deepened the kiss, knowing full well he was too much of a gentlemen to presume to dare do such a thing without her expressed permission. His response proved her right, clearly showing his eagerness and passion matched hers in equal measure.

They pulled away abruptly, jumping in shock at a noise somewhere behind them on the servants' staircase. They looked around sharply, but both were met with the sight of an empty corridor.

She giggled at their hasty departure and he began to chuckle in conspiration, resting his forehead against hers.

"You don't suppose that despite our mutual taste for a good argument, that we could perhaps forge a truce?" He asked, breathlessly.

She kissed him once more, chastely this time.

"A truce?" she asked, her tone a question in jest, "Whatever would we want one of those for?"

He shook his head in amused disbelief, resuming yet another kiss, this time with his tongue sliding gently past her lips. Her head followed his when he tried to pull away to speak, not quite letting him relinquish his claim on her mouth so soon.

She accomplished her aim for a moment, but it was not a long enough moment for her.

"I want us to be friends, Mary. We can still have our arguments, but I'd like to come away from them happy rather than deflated."

"Haven't we always been friends?" She knew she was playing with him, only she enjoyed it too greatly to give up the habit.

Matthew, clearly, seemed to take things a little more to heart.

"Don't play with me," he murmured. "I don't deserve it. Not from you."

He was right, she knew it. She felt a pang of regret for her general manner towards him over the last years. After all, she'd known in her heart of hearts that it had been misguided of her to treat Matthew as she had done in recompense for her own feelings regarding her father.

She supposed she hadn't realised how hurt he had been.

She said nothing for a moment, allowing him to continue speaking.

"Shall I remind you of some of the choicest remarks you made about me when I arrived here?"

She could tell he was playing with her now, for his tone was soft and amorous, gentle and seductive.

"Because they live in my memory, as fresh as the day they were spoken."

She looked up at him in rapture, taking on his own intonation with her reply.

"Oh, Matthew," she breathed, "what am I always telling you? You must pay no attention to the things I say."

Without a second thought, they were locked in another embrace.


End file.
